


La Mort et le Petit Lapin

by GarGoyl



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dark, Hungary-is-not-a-good-girl-either, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vampires, villain!France
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2612213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarGoyl/pseuds/GarGoyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>English – Death and the Little Rabbit. Victorian England AU - the newly appointed detective Arthur Kirkland and his colleague A. Jones are trying to find the culprit behind a series of monstrous crimes. But Death has long fingers and this mission might very well be their last. Non-fluff, non-con FRUK, dark themes, vampirism. I don't own Hetalia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

A/N – And now a few words of introduction…

a) This fic is vaguely inspired from the atmosphere of the novel "Drood" by Dan Simmons (if you've read it you'll see what I'm talking about), but the plot is completely unrelated, so fortunately no magic scarabs will crawl into anyone's brains… However, it's been obsessing me lately and although I have lots of other things in progress and to do in general, I feel compelled to 'bring it to life'. Yeah.

b) The story is mainly following Arthur's perspective, but occasionally other characters' perspective will be included as well, for plot purposes.

c) This story will not be for the faint of heart, so you have been warned. My inner demons are back at work.

d) I will be adding a soundtrack to each chapter, for the fun of it – all the stuff can be found on you-... tube.

_**Chapter 1 soundtrack:** _

AFI - Kiss My Eyes And Lay Me To Sleep (full)

Kuroshitsuji OST 2 ∞ Doll House

Zomby – Spliff dub

Kuroshitsuji OST 1 ∞ Coffin man

* * *

" _My fingers have known every inch of your skin and my body has become one with yours, yet I have still to know your first name, constable," the Frenchman said, his long pale fingers resting against the low window frame._

" _Arthur…" the other grumbled, right before a nasty coughing fit shook his lithe body under the covers. He resisted the need to pull them tighter around himself, his gaze never leaving the man standing at the foot of the bed._

" _Well, then,_ mon cher _Arthur, let me tell that you will not pull the trigger. And even if you do, the damage inflicted to my body will be minimal and easily remedied, thus the effort of your movement will be an utter waste."_

_Green eyes blinked sleepily as their owner struggled helplessly to focus, the hand holding up the pistol surprisingly steady, its aim still without flaw._

" _You sir, are an abomination."_

" _Quite so."_

_The next moment - barely registered by the smaller blond – the dark shadow lunged forward, over the bed and his free hand was gripped and pressed against the sheets. Francis leaned over, a few long and curly strands escaping from the midnight blue silk of the ribbon and their tips nearly brushing against the side of the detective's face._

" _In this truly dark and unfortunate hour, I have a mind to ask of the ultimate forbidden pleasure,_ mon petit lapin _. So… Arthur… would you give me your lips? Would you give yourself to me at last, completely, body and soul?"_

_Arthur moaned softly, a light scowl creasing his brow as his thumb pulled back the hammer and the muzzle of the pistol was pressed into the blonde locks, where the predator's temple would be._

" _Give you,_ Monsieur _Bonnefoy?!" He breathed hard, sensing he was about to choke again in another fit. "What is there left to give, have you not had everything already?"_

_Dark blue bore into light green as the Frenchman leaned lower, the tip of his nose nearly touching the other man's. Then he spoke slowly and softly, as if in confession. "I have indeed,_ mon cher _. I have had almost all of my heart's desires and more than any man could ever dream of. But you see, everything I've had I have taken. Shamelessly so…" He chuckled at the last word, his cold breath adding to the lack of heat in the small room. "And now… I crave to_ be given _… more. Will you give me what I crave, Arthur?"_

" _Monster… I swore to destroy you! I… "the detective shook his head weakly. "I cannot let you live! You must not live further!"_

_Teasing lips brushed against his ear as his words only seemed to bring mirth to the beast hovering above him. "But I am not_ alive _at all. I haven't been in a very long time. Thus, you cannot hope to kill me with lead, only pain me with rejection. Will you truly do that?"_

_The Englishman somehow managed to yank his other hand free from the man's grip and his fingers shot up, clawing at the frilly collar and seeking to dig into the throat underneath. The muzzle of the pistol left Francis' temple and slipped down, under his arm and over his side, until it found its way right under his ribcage. A faint smile crept upon Arthur's dry, pale lips._

" _I've nothing left to lose, sir, so I might just as well spare you of further pain as it is," he whispered. "You can have my lips, as well as my lead."_

_Three gunshots resounded in the small, cold room, muffled by the flesh they were directed at. Francis paled, his smile faltering as he gripped the offending hand, pushing it away from his injured body and intertwining his long, slender fingers among the smaller ones, such that the pistol dropped to the floor with a clatter. His other hand was used as support as he moaned in pain and leaned in lower, kissing at last – kissing and biting in the same time – the mouth at last offered to him. A trail of blood slid down the pale cheek from the corner of Arthur's lips, the Frenchman sighing against them as the body beneath him went limp._

* * *

_A police report dated 18 December 1867 stated that constables Arthur Kirkland and Alfred F. Jones had disappeared somewhere in the underground place unofficially known as 'Little Underworld'. Their bodies had never been found._

* * *

_**October 1867** _

The sickly sweet scent of decay filled the room – the body had been there a while. Though perhaps 'a body' was a bit of an overstatement. The gruesomely mangled remains were covered in dried, blackened blood and only a few pieces of the woman's silk garments were left, torn and sullied. Surprisingly, her head with luscious ebony curls was intact and severed neatly from the rest of her like a doll's, not a drop of blood smeared onto the pretty, youthful face with peacefully closed eyes and only slightly parted lips. A scarlet ribbon was still artistically tied around what was left of her throat, as if it were the wrapping of a present. But death had taken its cruel and sinister toll on beauty, turning pale skin to dark yellow parchment and sinking the orbs into their sockets.

"So this would be the… eleventh victim," detective Arthur Kirkland stated stiffly, turning slightly towards his younger colleague, Alfred F. Jones, who stood further away, the back of his gloved hand pressed tightly against his mouth. "The same appearance of the corpse as in the other cases, thus we can assume the same modus operandi."

Furrowing his thick eyebrows, the detective leaned over and picked a corner of the scarlet ribbon carefully between his fingers and gave it a light tug. The silk slipped from its knot and unfolded, revealing a few dried droplets of blood on the inside, which hadn't quite made it to the other side of the fabric. In the same time, the blond noticed small puncture wounds into the skin just below the jaw line.

"Bite marks…" he muttered to himself.

"You don't suppose she was smoking pipe, do you? Or whatever this thing is…" the younger constable asked, holding up an item which had been lying on the floor behind the sofa. "Maybe it belongs to the culprit, the landlady did say she was being visited by various men, and quite often too."

Arthur straightened his back, still holding the end of the ribbon pensively. "Anyone with a dog?"

"Wasn't mentioned. Why a dog?"

"A large dog presumably. My theory – by the look of things – is that she was killed, hacked and then someone (most likely the killer) allowed a dog to have its way with the torn body. Some parts indeed appear to have been devoured and there are distinctive teeth marks on the arm and on the neck as well," the green-eyed blond explained. "Dr. Braginski will probably be able to tell us more about it after the examination." He sighed. "And that is an opium pipe, so it could have been hers…"

Arthur took the long, thin object made of dark polished wood and with bronze bowl and mouthpiece and brought it to his nose. A vaguely sweet, flower-like smell still lingered on it, making its use beyond doubt. "Right. An opium pipe. A finely crafted one, rather expensive, I'd say. I doubt anyone would have left it behind, unless they were in a great hurry. But whoever produced this mess was obviously _not_ in a hurry, so it's safe to assume it was hers."

"Excuse me, are you finished yet?" another policeman popped his head inside the room, looking questioningly at the two of them.

The detective nodded curtly. "Yes, for now we are. You lads can come in and gather up…"

Muffling a cough, he started down the stairs with Jones in tow, already composing in his head the introduction of the report he was to write when they arrived back at the station. Yet another one sans conclusion. A hand suddenly gripped the policeman's arm as he eventually reached the bottom of the stairs and he turned rather startled, to meet the creepy chuckle of the old landlady.

"Wait up a moment, sir!" she croaked, digging hastily in the pocket of her dirty apron.

"What is it? Have you remembered anything else, madam?"

The hag shook her head, but held up a worn card with yellowed, crooked fingers and grinned. "I have not but that poor deceased girl upstairs… she used to go down there, to that place, what's it called? 'Little Underworld' I believe, you must know of it, constable!" Saying that she winked, or at least Arthur thought so. "There's a fancy gentleman there who might help you!"

The green-eyed young man blinked and stared at her, taking in the woman's features thoughtfully – she couldn't have been really that old, but the decrepitude of her appearance was of a different nature, as if she had withered before her time in a foul fashion. He silently gathered that she must have been smoking opium as well.

"Well, thank you, madam," he replied with a small nod, pale fingers reaching up to the brim of his hat as he did so. Fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket, Arthur picked up the card with two fingers, examining it briefly as the hag promptly shut the door of her room in their nose.

" _Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy, Baronet – Clairvoyant and Philosopher_. Oh, jolly good. A frog with a crystal ball," he observed bluntly, flicking the card upwards with his thumb. Alfred caught it just in time as it flew and frowned at it, while the other constable proceeded to blow his nose loudly.

They stepped outside into the cold drizzle which had begun pouring incessantly since early morning and out of the way of the rest of the staff. Arthur threw a glance at the black wagon of the morgue waiting by the sidewalk and sighed deeply, feeling a sting as the cold air entered his lungs.

"But Arthur, you don't suppose… that we should go after this man, do you? The landlady said that he dwells in the 'Little Underworld'…" Jones began warily, still unwilling to show the full extent of his reluctance.

"I don't see why not, everyone knows where that damned place is. And I suppose that at least the weather is better down there for a change."

This weather was bad for him - he knew – and it was only bloody October. Right now he should have been resting in a soft armchair, in front of a blazing fireplace, with a cup of hot, strong tea by his side. But constable Arthur Kirkland did not have the means to afford this sort of lavish lifestyle, he had to work hard for a living. In all kinds of weather.

"But policemen never go there…" the younger insisted weakly.

The Englishman pursed his mouth in a pained grimace as he glanced at his younger colleague. Alfred F. Jones had had it hard enough already and had struggled hard to earn the life he was living now. He'd traveled from New Orleans to London with his mother in search of a new life away from a wicked family, only to lose her soon afterwards. The poor woman had been run over by a drunk carriage driver and the young American had been left alone in the world, with not a soul to care for him.

Arthur himself – coming from a numerous but now entirely departed family – entertained neither the desire nor the hope of being wed and having children of his own, but fate had decided to 'bless' him on several occasions with the task of caring for _other people's_ children. A task which he had found endlessly annoying and troublesome until he had met young Alfred, freshly recruited with the force and rather helpless and unaware. He'd taken a fondness for the boy – although Alfred was only four years younger – and felt responsible for his wellbeing and safety. Admittedly, in this very moment, he wasn't doing a very good job at that.

"Alfred, I'm afraid we don't have much of a choice at this point, we still have no leads and the corpses continue to pile up. So we have to do something, even if it means talking to this man, whoever the hell he is."

* * *

The icy drizzle had intensified by the time they passed through the gates of the old cemetery, the wet tombstones looking more desolate than usual and the barely cobblestoned paths turned to mud. The two constables walked up the main alley in complete silence, only occasionally broken by Arthur's pestering cough. Hell, he did not yet dare think of wintertime.

"There! That's where the entrance is supposed to be!" Alfred's gloved hand pointed hesitantly towards a small mausoleum adorned with Greek columns, now cracked and covered in dry, blackened ivy strains. It had a simple, thick wooden door with rusty hinges in the shape of vine leaves, which was slightly ajar for some reason.

The two of them reached the indicated place and stared at it for a while, the blue-eyed blond warily and the other with an increasing scowl, before Arthur determinedly pulled out his truncheon and gave a firm push to the door. It creaked open, revealing a marble floor covered in dirt and dry leaves and a staircase spiraling down into the darkness below.

"Shouldn't we have brought lanterns?"

The green-eyed constable continued to scowl, this time at the depths of the well below. "Oh, to hell with it…" He pulled out a small flask from the inside of his coat and took his time unscrewing the cap, taking a hearty swig of scotch and screwing the cap back on. The strong spirit burned down his throat and brought some warmth into his body.

"Come now, Alfred, I'm sure we can do without lanterns."

They started down the treacherous spiral of worn and chipped steps cautiously, but it really was only a brief descent. A narrow corridor began at the bottom of the stairs, pitch dark, but the two still decided to push on. Unseen debris was crunching under their feet as they advanced, patting blindly at the wall. Arthur had expected solid stone, but instead he could feel the distinctive shape of bricks under his fingers. He decided to focus on the regular, familiar pattern, ignoring the stale smell of the place which had an odd tint of smoke in it.

The path turned a corner at some point and then opened into a surprisingly large hall – albeit with low ceiling. Niches and crypts could be seen everywhere, except in the far back where there was a large, rusty iron gate flanked by torches. The torches only cast a dim, flickering light and filled the room with a thick, foul-smelling smoke, but the constables were still able to see a hunched figure standing guard by the gate.

The figure stirred brusquely as the two walked up towards it, standing surprisingly straight and tall all the sudden. Arthur squinted a bit, his gaze trailing over the man's dirty face, forehead shadowed by unruly dark bangs, to the menacing glare of his eyes, all the way down to the wicked gleam of the blade in his hand.

"Now… wha' might ye two pretty boys doin' down 'ere?" the guard drawled. "Don't ye know the rule o' this place? No police!" The knife was weighed in the man's hand intently as he spoke, taking a purposeful step forward.

The younger constable's hand flew to his pistol on reflex, but the detective pressed down on his arm gently, shaking his head. "Sir, I assure you that we're not here to cause any inconvenience to this… establishment. We simply require the expertise of _Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy – Clairvoyant and Philosopher_ and we were told that this is where we could find this fine gentleman," he said calmly.

The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise and he groaned, pondering as he gave the two a slow once-over.

"Alright…" he decided eventually. "But just ye keep in mind, there's only so many times ye can fire those lil' toy pistols o' yers before the rest of us jump ye and tear ye into very tiny shreds. So don't ye try anythin' funny, aye? Mr. Wang is sure to keep an eye on ye!"

The rusty gate was opened for them to enter, a surprising view suddenly opening to their eyes at the top of yet more stairs to descend. The 'Little Underworld' must have been the size of a small village, the system of crypts and catacombs run through by a multitude of narrow, poorly illuminated paths having an eerie atmosphere seen from above. Above, in the 'ceiling' there must have been several ventilation shafts, such that the smoke from the countless fires and torches did not become suffocating and there was a constant supply of fresh air. Arthur had been right about one thing – down here the weather was better, it didn't rain and it certainly was a lot less cold than outside.

As soon as the two constables reached the bottom ground, where the draft was less present, a wave of heavily scented smoke hit their nostrils. Everywhere there were rooms – some large, lavishly decorated and furnished with soft, pillow-laden sofas and oriental carpets, while others small and cramped, almost the size of a regular crypt, containing cots covered in rags – all serving a single purpose, for the richer and for the poorer customers alike.

"So this is, I presume, the largest opium den owned by the infamous Mr. Yao Wang," Arthur observed.

They did their best to ignore the suspicious stares and even murmurs stirred by their presence there and asked for directions as to where the mysterious Frenchman could be found as briefly as possible. But no one asked – as neither had the guard – why they were looking for the man. The pale, thin Chinese boy Alfred had first showed the card to had shied away from it and had let out what had sounded something akin to a frightened babble. An older man had answered instead, giving precise indications this time, but his reluctance was obvious.

"Arthur… you don't suppose that _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy could be dangerous, do you?" the younger policeman voiced his concern in a whisper.

His green-eyed friend scowled and rolled his eyes openly at the suggestion. "For God's sake, he's a bloody _fortuneteller_!" he muttered humorlessly, feeling rather unsettled by the sight of the pale, haunted faces and glazed eyes of the people lying around on beds, sofas and cots, smoking and dwelling in a world of their own. Some were young, others old, but their withering was alike, albeit to various extents, their addiction all-powerful and consuming in the same time.

The smoke stirred his cough again, on top of causing a light dizziness to take over, thus Arthur resorted to covering his nose and mouth with his handkerchief. He coughed nevertheless and, as it happened often after a day in the cold, his chest eventually began to hurt and feel hollow. Damn. He checked his pocket watch – it was already five in the evening. After they talked to this man (hopefully it would not prove a complete waste of time), they would go home at last and he would lie down in bed for a bit before dinner.

A thick, dark blue velvet curtain was draped over the alcove where _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy apparently resided, faint light flickering behind it. A small oil lamp burned outside as well, casting dancing shadows over the shapely form of a young woman who stood guard.

"Good evening, madam! We were wondering if we could have a word with _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy?" the detective asked politely.

By his side, Alfred observed the black velvet-clad woman in awe, yet with a bad feeling in his gut. Although she currently held an opium pipe in her hand, a thin thread of smoke rising from the silvery bowl, she looked nothing like the poor wretches they'd seen along the way. Her long, black or maybe dark chestnut hair was rich and well-kept, her skin smooth and fresh (albeit of an unnatural porcelain whiteness), her green eyes bright and cunning and lips full, much too red.

"Just a moment…"

The brunette leaned and pulled open the curtain a bit, poking her head inside and whispering something. Almost immediately afterwards some stirring could be heard and Arthur straightened his back, putting the handkerchief away as the curtain was drawn aside and _Monsieur_ Francis Bonnefoy, Baronet came into view.

Upon laying eyes on the man, the Englishman's first impulse, however unexplainable, was to turn around on his heels and march off, to such extent that he even caught himself mentally assessing how long it would have taken to get the hell out of that horrid place and reach the surface at top speed. Yet there was nothing repulsive about the fortuneteller's appearance, quite on the contrary. He was a strikingly handsome young man and, just like the woman, in surprisingly good shape for an opium addict. For the fact was beyond doubt – on the sill framing his lavish sofa placed in the alcove there stood a large, finely crafted hookah and several pipes, as well as supplies. Or maybe it was just that they hadn't been smoking long enough for the effects to become visible? Arthur resolved it wasn't any of his business – he had expected to see some decrepit, ruined noble selling artistically fabled stories to anyone who was either insane or stupid enough to come down here, heavily risking to be mugged or have their throat cut – and was simply surprised, that was all. Because everyone knew that Yao's underground den was far from being an 'idyllic', peaceful place of retreat and leisure.

" _Bon soir_!" the Frenchman said, greeting the two with a pleasant smile which showed beautiful, pearly-white teeth. His dark-blue eyes were taking in the pair observantly but with amused curiosity nevertheless. He didn't bother to sit up from his sprawled out pose on the pillows, merely raising a hand to toy with the long, silky blonde curls tied back with a bright red ribbon. His clothing – a frilly white shirt under a long, black velvet overcoat, white breeches ending just below the knee and silk stockings – was severely out of fashion, anachronistic even, but it was probably a sign of the man's eccentricity.

"Good evening, sir," the green-eyed blond replied, vaguely irritated by the French greeting. "I am detective Kirkland and this is constable Jones. We're here to ask you some questions, if you'd be so kind as to answer them," he said stiffly, holding his chin up.

The Frenchman rubbed his chin thoughtfully with a slender, pale hand adorned with a large sapphire ring on the index finger. His vague smirk never faltering, he graciously tilted his head to the side, raising a thin eyebrow. "Ah well, of course! How may I help you gentlemen?"

Bastard! He only afforded this nonchalant attitude because he knew that down here the two policemen could do nothing to him.

"We are investigating a series of murders occurred recently and we were told by a reliable source that you might provide us with some insights into the matter. All the more since the last victim was an opium user..." Just as he was saying the words, it dawned on Arthur that the salacious hag who had tried to flirt with him earlier was probably eager to win the favor of the beautiful Frenchman by bringing him more customers. Well, like hell they were going to pay!

"I see," Bonnefoy replied, "you were told that I sell information and indeed, it is one of my occupations. You must be referring to what the newspapers have described as 'the most brutal, barbaric homicides in the last half a century', _n'est ce pas_? All those lovely mademoiselles of delightfully dubious reputation… Well, I do not have anything on that. _Yet_."

Here it comes, Arthur thought, as for some unknown reason the man's smile widened.

"If it were possible for you to come back in two days' time, constables, I swear to make every effort to aid a noble cause," the fortuneteller declared smugly. "Oh, and do not trouble yourselves over compensation, among other things I feast on the beauty of this world and momentarily I find myself very pleased, ohonhonhon."

Alfred blinked, furrowing his brow and completely at a loss as to what to make of the thoroughly odd comment. The man wasn't by any chance _flirting_ with them, was he? But the gaze of those mesmerizing blue eyes was trained intently and solely on his colleague, whose stiff stance was borderline hostile at this point. Nope, he was most likely mocking them.

"Well then, we greatly appreciate your willingness to help, _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy. We shall be back in two days."

Arthur nodded briefly in salute and turned to leave, mentally swearing never to set foot in this godforsaken place ever again, when the Frenchman cleared his throat to draw their attention.

"I was thinking, since you bothered to come all this way, I might just as well give you a quick reading of your future, just by observing your auras," he said.

The green-eyed blond tsked when Alfred turned around, obviously intrigued and curious and crossed his arms. "Oh. Really?"

Bonnefoy chewed on his bottom lip sensually but with un-dissimulated mirth. "Quite so. For example, you, constable Jones, have a hard path ahead of you, but if you work hard and fight enough you shall prevail and know true happiness," he stated, then sighed dramatically, once more shifting his focus onto the Englishman. "But as for you, detective Kirkland… I'm very much afraid that someone with long fingers will get their hands on you soon enough…"

_**To be continued** _

 


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

Warning: more mentions of substance abuse

Chapter 2 soundtrack:

Sneaker Pimps - 6 Underground

Kuroshitsuji OST 2 ∞ Doll House

Massive Attack - Teardrop

Smoke City – Underwater Love

* * *

Elizaveta's perfect lips wrapped around the silver muzzle of the pipe and she took a long drag, inhaling the fragrant smoke to its fullest while she examined the current situation. Her mentor seemed oddly thoughtful and introspective all the sudden, having fallen into that peculiar state right after the two constables had left. His usual mirth had dissolved and he was left pondering, mulling over something occult in uncharacteristic concentration. He was becoming boring too, on top of the other inconveniences.

"Francis, you're not really considering giving the police any _actual_ information about what's going on, are you?" she asked in a tone of disbelief and if only just to break the tedious silence.

The dark blue eyes lazily shifted their focus from the silk hem of the bedclothes he was absentmindedly caressing to his charge's standing frame, taking in her expression. "And why wouldn't I? It's not like I have anything to be afraid of, now do I?"

"But are we not supposed to be discreet, _cher_ Francis? Is that not why we live down here?" She did not add 'in this unbelievable shithole', because she'd already voiced her opinion without effect countless times before. "So why cause all this complication now?" the Hungarian insisted, frowning.

"Well, why _not_ cause it? I'm bored… Besides, the constables are young, they want a fight – it would take a blind man not to see that. So why should I not give them the fight they seek, give them the chance to do what's right and risk everything for a noble cause?"

The brunette could not help finding that amusing and she turned around and opened a trunk containing some of their random possessions and pulled out a fancy walking stick. "I am detective Kirkland and this is constable Jones. We're here to ask you some questions, you bloody frog!" she said solemnly, mimicking the Englishman's voice and pointing the walking stick towards Francis' nose in a dramatic pose.

The blond laughed in turn, shaking his head. "Oh, but he didn't say that. 'You bloody frog'."

"It was implied, _cher_ Francis," Elizaveta pointed. "Also, I don't think you impressed them with your compliment. Either it was too subtle or the two of them too skeptical, but it slipped completely. All that poetry wasted. But serves you right if you had nothing better to do than to flirt with some silly little boy from the New World with a pumpkin for a head and a British pipsqueak with a stick up his arse."

Francis turned slightly, the flickering flames of the two oil lamps casting eerie shadows on his porcelain white complexion and making his now grinning lips appear dark in comparison. An odd gleam was in his eyes too as he sat up slowly, watching his charge intently.

"Well, to be honest, I found the pipsqueak quite endearing and his blunt manner similar to spice onto a well-seasoned meal, _chere_ Elizaveta. The other one will probably die, but perhaps I shall keep him as my _petit lapin_."

* * *

Pale light was pouring in, filtering through the dirty windows of the basement and the air was stale, filled with a vague scent of putrid flesh mixed with some unidentifiable chemicals. Alfred was examining curiously the various jars of dubious and sinister contents, but still with a wary, unsettled expression, while Arthur waited patiently, handkerchief pressed over his mouth and nose to keep away any irritating smells which could have easily triggered a particularly nasty and inconvenient coughing fit, at least for now.

The green-eyed constable's gaze was fixated upon the simple metal table which occupied the center of the small room, where the last of the bodies found lay beneath a simple sheet stained with dried blood. Arthur half dreaded the moment it would be lifted, because he did not want to see that doll face again, with eyes closed as in peaceful sleep, for if anything he knew that she had not died peacefully. It was all a mockery, a sinister trick meant only to strike further horror into the very core of the beholder.

Behind a curtain Dr. Braginski was still rummaging through his tools or doing God knew what, taking his time at any rate.

"What _on earth_ could be taking this long? What is he doing in there?! And do you think that these people have somehow been stripped of their sense of smell?" Alfred muttered, fidgeting and unable to suppress his impatience.

His companion sighed."No, but when one has been exposed to a certain scent for a long time, the nose is no longer able to perceive it," he explained stiffly, discreetly removing his handkerchief and replacing it in his pocket when the curtain was drawn at last and the doctor emerged.

The tall, solid Russian was wearing a crisp white shirt, a pristine black apron and his ashen blond hair was combed to perfection, yet the pallor of his cheek and the tired gaze of his purple eyes were giving an unexpected air of frailty to this massive man. His shoulders were always slumped, as if he were somehow embarrassed by his own height.

"Well, hello," he greeted the two policemen somewhat bashful. "I really was hoping there would be no need for us to meet again this soon, da," he added with a wry smile, motioning with his head towards the table. "You are well I hope?"

"Quite so…"

Braginski blinked, his gaze sweeping over the two younger men standing on the other side of the examination table, then almost inconspicuously shook his head. "Kirkland, you will forgive me for saying this openly, but perhaps you should see a doctor. I don't mean to sound grim, but you are beginning to take a shade very similar to that of my clients."

Well, great. If the Russian had thought a bit of small talk would brighten the gloomy atmosphere, he'd surely chosen the wrong subject. "I have seen a doctor already. He told me I should get a wife."

"Dear God, a _wife_? Whatever for?"

Arthur pursed his lips in a sour grimace. "He said that I need a woman in my bed, but one that would warm me up without requiring to be impressed, I am not to exert myself, you see. So that's why it must be a wife… honestly I cannot see why it can't very well be a bloody stove."

"Certainly a stove would be better, da," the Russian agreed, laughing. "He must have clearly overlooked the multitude of inconveniences of a wife, which can send a man to an untimely grave faster than any illness…"

Oh well, he must have known what he was talking about, the policeman thought. "So, Doctor, do you have anything for us?" he asked, eager to get it over with. It was important to hear what the man had to say, but in truth Dr. Braginski had had little to say after examining the previously found bodies, aside from what they'd been able to observe themselves. The nature of the wounds, as they were, didn't answer the question as to what sort of person would have inflicted them.

The ashen blond cleared his throat awkwardly, moving to lift the sheet and uncover the corpse. "Well, I have to say, constable, that your initial assumptions were correct, for the most part, da," he said."However, the dog hypothesis puzzles me somewhat. You see – Toris, bring me my special glasses, will you? – the bite marks on most of the remains can be attributed to a dog of some sort, in those parts where teeth have obviously torn the skin and scraped and snapped the bones, but the neck is a bit of a different story…"

Ivan took a peculiar pair of goggles hastily brought by his younger assistant and put them on, then used a sharp instrument to point at what he was talking about. The two policemen drew closer in turn, stooping over to see and Arthur could no longer avoid the sight.

"As we know, the neck was neatly severed from the body with a sharp instrument. That bit is puzzling also, as I have found, since it appears to have been done with a single and very precise stroke," the doctor explained." In truth, I had not given it much thought before, with the other victims, naturally assuming that it must have been done with a very sharp knife, da. But then, how can the relatively light, thin blade of a knife cut through skin, muscle and bones in a single stroke? An axe though would have caused a far less precise incision, this looks like the effect of a guillotine."

"Yes, but it is rather absurd to assume that the killer could have been walking around carrying a guillotine, even one of small size, completely unnoticed," the detective observed. "Besides, I suppose that no matter how small, such an instrument would also be quite heavy to carry around in the first place, don't you think?"

Braginski nodded. "Exactly. That's why I am left to assume that it could only have been someone with a very, very strong hand! But then, who has such a strong hand?"

"Right…" Arthur fished a small notebook and a pencil out of his pocket and began jotting down. The suspect was very likely a bulky person, and someone adept at performing such an incision with both strength and skill. A doctor perhaps? "You were saying that there's something peculiar about the bite marks on the neck as well?" he reminded the Russian.

"Ah, yes! To be precise, the bite marks on the neck (or should I say _puncture wounds_? _)_ do not match the others. They are finer, appearing to be made by smaller, sharper teeth, da. I found it quite strange and at some point I wondered whether it wasn't in fact some sort of instrument or needles disposed in such a way as to resemble bite marks..." the doctor paused, looking up from the corpse and blinking questioningly.

Arthur turned to see that his younger colleague had become rather green in the face and a shaky hand was currently gripping his arm for support.

"Ah… there is a bucket for guests over there, in the corner, constable Jones," the Russian indicated kindly.

"So, to sum it up, doctor, it would be a fair assumption to conclude that someone has used the victim's body to perform some sort of experiment – since you mentioned instruments - or perhaps ritual and then fed the remains to a dog?" the green-eyed constable asked, scowling as he did his best to ignore the background sounds.

Ivan Braginski took off his goggles, straightened his back and sighed, motioning for his assistant to leave them. He set down his tool and rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncertain.

"Now, constable, speaking of a _ritual_ , I don't know how devout or superstitious you are, but…" The doctor hesitated, his wary gaze trailing from the detective to his very pale looking colleague, who was still kneeling on the floor in a corner. "Well, the thing is that I have accidentally made a rather intriguing observation, da."

With slow, meticulous movements he untied and took off the apron and undid the first two buttons of his shirt, digging inside. A thin, silver chain came into view, bearing a small cross pendant of the same material and a glass phial of sorts, filled with translucent liquid. The Russian took off the chain and held up the phial, flicking the small cork off with his thumb.

"Holy water," he said simply. "I never thought much of it, but my mother always insisted I should wear it at all times, as protection against evil spirits. A superstition from my home country, da… Anyway, from a strictly chemical point of view, if you will, holy water is just water, sometimes infused with extracts of certain plants, all in all, nothing to justify the peculiar reaction I have observed yesterday. Let me show you something, constable, if you will just give me your hand…"

He motioned for Arthur and the constable removed his glove, presenting him his open palm. "Now," the doctor went on, letting a drop of holy water fall onto the exposed skin, "you will see that nothing happens, as nothing _should_ happen, da. But yesterday I had a little accident with the cork while I was examining the remains and the water spilled, soaked through my shirt and dripped onto the flesh. And this happened…"

Braginski poured another drop of holy water on what was left of the woman's torso. Instantly a sizzling sound could be heard and a sickening smell emanated from the reaction.

"See? It _burns_ …"

The Englishman remained planted firmly next to the table, eyes fixed onto the now burned, blackened hole in the flesh with a stern expression and wiping his hand away on his trousers with a slow motion. He carefully placed the notebook and pencil back inside his pocket and crossed his arms.

"Doctor, this isn't any sort of… joke, is it now?" he asked ill-humoredly.

The Russian shook his head.

"Then what exactly are you implying?"

The ashen blond shrugged. "I'm hardly implying anything, but it is known that supposedly holy water only causes this sort of reaction upon contact with something impure, _unholy_. Of course, I've never seen anything like this before or know of anyone who has, after all, that's just… what the Church says, da."

Arthur scowled – he could really have used a less fantastic insight on the matter! Unholy? What did that even mean, that the murdered woman had been unholy? Or that her body had been tainted by a demonic being? What rubbish! His head was beginning to hurt, slowly but surely.

"Couldn't it be that the body has been contaminated with some sort of chemical?"

"Nothing that would have such a reaction, no. After all it's just water, constable."

* * *

The green-eyed blond sighed morosely, gloved fingers pressing his forehead under the brim of his hat. He was tired and the lack of results was only adding to his general state of depression. They'd hardly found anything new, other than that their man was an unusually strong individual and possibly a doctor. They would have to go back to the dwellings of the victims and inquire whether they had been visited by any doctor.

Arthur scowled at the pavement beneath his boots, no, that probably wouldn't help much. Whoever the culprit was, he'd planned everything carefully, meaning to confuse as well as frighten. The peculiar mixture of gruesomeness and precision in the execution pointed to someone quite clever and no doubt the mangling of the bodies had been used to conceal any subtle traces. Perhaps the killer had made a mistake in his desire to 'preserve' the faces to some extent, leaving visible marks of the instruments used. And then there was the opium… often prescribed by doctors for various afflictions. But was the culprit really a doctor? Hell.

"To be honest, I've always found Dr. Braginski rather disturbing," Alfred confessed, breaking the other's train of thought."And now this? You don't suppose he could be right?"

"The use of instruments points towards some sort of scientific interest, so our man might be a doctor, yes. We shall report it to the Chief Inspector, since it's all we've got so far…"

"No, Arthur, the _other_ thing!"

The detective rolled his eyes. "Obviously we cannot tell the Inspector this preposterous little tale, unless we want to become acquainted with the insides of Bedlam on a permanent basis. And one cannot possibly presume that the killer is anything but a man, like you and me and not some unholy creature. Admittedly, Braginski is a superstitious man himself and has probably spent too much time among the dead to think entirely straight anymore."

He stared up at the cloud-laden sky as the other huffed in frustration, realising that it was going to be dark soon. It was still fairly early but the days had become shorter and grimmer and… plain useless as of late. Upon reading their thin report the Chief Inspector would soon be furrowing his brow, running a weary hand through his white, short trimmed hair and sigh, casually observing that perhaps he'd rushed somewhat with Arthur's promotion, since now his youngest detective appeared to have lost his touch and interest in the job.

"Well, we have no choice, it seems. So in order for today not to be a complete waste of time, you will go and ask about the sights of any doctor visiting the victims as of late – cover as many addresses as you can until tonight – and I will go and see that ridiculous fortuneteller because it's been two days already and maybe he has something for us."

Arthur hated the idea of going back to that man who had made him such an awful impression the first time, but he really had no option other than to explore all possibilities. And if Francis Bonnefoy – _Clairvoyant and Philosopher_ was as good an information trafficker as he'd claimed to be, well…

Alfred however looked positively indignant at the suggestion. "Arthur, I don't want you to go back there on your own, it's too dangerous!"

"Nonsense, I'll be just fine," his colleague grumbled in reply. "Now off you go and I'll see you at dinner."

* * *

He wasn't in luck. By the time he made it to the cemetery, it was raining – not just drizzle, but a full-out downpour. Arthur walked hurriedly into the shelter of the small mausoleum, leaning on the inside of the door to catch his breath and blow his nose, with which occasion the constable noted that even his handkerchief was wet. The only thing yet untouched by the blasted rain was the scotch in his flask and he made generous use of it, even if it left his throat burning and he knew it was bad for his cough.

Again Arthur was without a lantern and forced to stumble blindly down treacherous stairs and along pitch dark pathways, but he was glad that at least this time his younger friend hadn't followed. Deep down he knew that his constant 'mothering' was doing Alfred no good in the long term – he'd have to get used to tough stuff if he was to make it in this profession – but this place, the 'Little Underworld' was an accurate miniature of Hell and one he'd rather have spared Alfred from.

The man standing guard at the gate – the detective did not notice or care if it was the same man or another – made little inquiry into his purposes and caused no trouble, probably because he was alone. A word of Mr. Wang's watchfulness was delivered nevertheless and Arthur could not help appreciate how serious the owner was about the safety of his business. It must have been quite an investment, after all.

He was shivering as he walked towards the Frenchman's alcove, water having gone all the way through his clothes and reached his skin. The ever pestering cough wasn't momentarily present but his chest was beginning to ache even in its absence. Some of the beds he passed by looked very comfortable and Arthur found himself wondering, if only for a moment, what it would have been like if he were allowed to just lie there, to rest without a worry, free from pain and chagrin.

The strange brunette woman was there again, standing guard by Bonnefoy's place, but now the curtain was pulled back and the fortuneteller seemed to have been expecting him.

"Hello Mr. Bonnefoy, madam…" the detective said with a curt nod while attempting to scrutinize their expressions.

"Ah, you have returned, constable," the blond stretched on the sofa said with a charming smile. "That means you were not frightened by my grim predictions, were you? But my, you are soaked!"

Suddenly, he was up on his feet, his slender, gracious frame towering a bit over the policeman. It irked Arthur to no end that the bloody Frenchman was taller than him and that he now had to look up at the man's face. Damn him to hell!

"Can we get you anything to make you more comfortable? Some tea perhaps?" Bonnefoy offered in a sweet tone, as if he were talking to a pouting child.

"I'm quite fine, thank you. I was wondering if you have managed to find out anything about the murders."

The fortuneteller smirked, obviously pleased with himself as he dug inside one large pocket of his velvet coat and produced a carefully folded piece of paper, holding it up with two fingers for the other blond to see. He began explaining something in a low voice, but for some reason his words were a complete blur and Arthur scowled, unable to comprehend a single thing. Then the sight darkened before his eyes, growing more and more unfocused before his eyelids suddenly fell shut and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

Smoke. Heavy, thick opium smoke. Flickering shadows danced on the low ceiling as he lied face up on the sofa, covered with a warm blanket. Warm and comfortable and… already lying in a tomb. The sudden sinister thought forced the green-eyed blond up into a sitting position, panting slightly and blinking as his eyes struggled to adapt to the dim light. But he _was_ in a tomb, that was what Wang's opium den was, both literally and figuratively, one large tomb.

"Ah, constable, you're awake! You gave us quite a fright earlier, you know?" Bonnefoy stated, smoking his pipe untroubled.

"But you are alright now, are you not, sir?" the brunette woman asked, sitting down beside Arthur and reaching out as if intending to run her fingers through his hair, but the Frenchman caught her wrist before she could touch him, a light scowl on his face as he did, muttering something and pointing out that the constable wasn't one of _her_ clients.

"Forgive me, I… I think I must have…"

"You fainted, probably out of exhaustion, if I may say so. You slept for quite a bit, you see," the fortuneteller observed, appearing genuinely concerned as the detective took out his pocket watch and stared at it with a disbelieving frown. It was almost ten thirty in the evening. Bloody hell! "I think you should go home and rest now…"

* * *

By the time he got home, chilled to the bone and shivering in the damp clothes, he already had a fever. His cheeks burned unmistakably and his head felt heavy as he dragged himself up the stairs trying to make as little noise as possible – their landlady went to bed early but she was a light sleeper.

Quietly, Arthur let himself in into his and Alfred's small room, noticing with some relief that the stove was functional. For cost efficiency's sake, the two of them shared the rented lodging and even that wasn't much – a single room with a narrow bed on each side, a table by the window and an old, worn wardrobe. The rug covering the wooden boards of the floor had seen better days and the wallpaper was peeling off in corners, but they found it comfortable enough.

"Arthur, where have you been?! Do you have any idea how late it is?!" the younger man instantly jumped at his sight, abandoning the book he'd been reading, a worried frown on his face. "I was worried sick, knowing that you'd gone down… down there again!"

The green-eyed blond sighed – Alfred couldn't know that he had fainted and slept like a rock on the Frenchman's sofa for a few hours, he would have worried even more. With a grimace, he took out the piece of paper Bonnefoy had supplied. "The frog actually got something for us, but in return I had to listen to his nonsensical blabber for hours. My head hurts," he grumbled in reply. "I'll tell you all about it in the morning though, right now I'm so tired I can't even think."

* * *

It had gotten warmer, flesh no longer feeling frozen on his bones. A pleasant, enveloping drowsiness dulled his senses and Arthur stretched, muscles relaxing, all ache gone from his head and chest. The sheets were feather soft around his body and under his fingers, warm, soft as snowflakes and feather light.

But something felt peculiar, off and he was almost… sitting? The blond forced his eyes open, suddenly being met with the sight of countless flickering candles. With an instant scowl, Arthur lifted his hand – at first intent on rubbing his eyes – and saw the pristine sheets crumbling oddly between his fingers, flakes still attached to his hand as he held it up, in front of his face. Blinking, the policeman realized that it was fine foam and water was sloshing gently around his arm. Apparently he was sitting in a foam-covered bath, his back propped against the wall of the basin and the back of his neck and head resting comfortably onto a soft, folded towel. His fever was gone, but he was dizzy as hell, in dire need of sleep.

"Ah, I see that you are finally awake, _mon petit lapin_ ," a voice said suddenly and the green-eyed blond looked up brusquely, to his complete shock discovering the Frenchman only a few inches away in front of him, appearing to relax in a similar fashion.

His body reacted instinctively - albeit much slower than it normally would have – pulling his knees to his chest defensively as his fingers reached out to grip the edge of the bath. But that was it, since the effort it would have taken to pull himself up and out and… simply get the hell out of there was just too much for his fatigue. Yet the sight of the fortuneteller repelled him more than ever now that he was seeing him in brighter light, his heart told him that there was something foul under that flawless, unnatural beauty with skin too pale, lips too red and eyes too bright, burning with a hidden fire.

"What the hell is going on?! What am I doing in your bath, sir?! And don't call me your bloody 'little rabbit'!" Arthur wanted to shout, but it only came out as a mumbled groan, barely intelligible. God, he was so tired!

Monsieur Bonnefoy's smile didn't falter, he only tilted his head to the side, mildly curious. "Ah, I thought you didn't understand French, constable," he said softly in reply, but momentarily provided no explanation as to the circumstances of the peculiar encounter. Some foul play must have been at work regardless, because the constable was absolutely sure that there was no way in hell he could have ever _consented_ to this. And what the hell was this to begin with?

"It was forced down my throat to some extent at some point during my education…" Damn, he didn't want to say that, why had he said that? "Anyway, you didn't answer… what… why am I here?" He wanted to rub off the drowsiness and only succeeded in getting soap in his eyes. The foam was pleasantly scented – fresh and suave roses – but it stung like hell and the policeman moaned and sniffed, eyes watering heavily and incapable of getting rid of it.

The blue-eyed man shifted slowly, lazily but efficiently, closing the distance between their bodies and reaching out, somewhere past Arthur's shoulder and grabbing what turned out to be a pitcher with clean water. He poured some into his large palm and then ran it down the smaller blond's face, gently wiping away the troublesome soap. "There, _mon petit lapin_ ," he soothed, then reaching up again and smoothing one thick, wet eyebrow with his thumb in an almost tender motion.

"Listen, sir, do you think-… what the hell are you thinking?!" Arthur questioned, as sternly as he could as his eyes snapped open again and fleetingly considering that perhaps he should have at least tried to push the man away instead of allowing this absurd invasion of his personal space and these odd touches.

Francis Bonnefoy smirked mysteriously, oblivious to the other's reluctant body language. "Actually, I was thinking that… your eyes are beautiful like jewels, large and bright, your lips are like petals and your skin like pristine white velvet…"

The Englishman frowned, having trouble processing what he'd just heard because it made no bloody sense whatsoever. "W-what now? It's r-revolting…" he mumbled, his head falling back and dizziness growing worse. He made no move to struggle or oppose when the other blond did the unthinkable and Arthur found himself pulled to sit into the man's lap. But the policeman only slumped against the man's torso, resting his forehead in the moist, bare crook of his neck, the touch of their naked bodies pressed together failing to make an impression on him whatsoever.

"Sir, I have to tell you that this is… both highly inappropriate and uncomfortable…" the green-eyed young man pointed regardless. His fingers dug absentmindedly into the Frenchman's shoulder and his observant mind – trained to work even in drunken stupor - made a peculiar note, so blatant that it could not have possibly escaped him. There was no warmth to that perfect flesh and under the soft, alabaster skin the muscles were iron hard, oddly unfitting for someone lazing their life away on a sofa in an opium den.

But the fortuneteller soon distracted him by picking up his thin wrist between two of his long fingers and running the tip of his nose up towards the hand, as if trying to capture the scent of Arthur's skin. The Englishman watched numbly as the man's lips first explored his open palm, then the tip of each of his fingers, but not quite kissing them, inhaling deeply with half-lidded eyes.

"Y-You're mad…"

The blue eyes opened slowly with a sinister gleam and Francis smirked lightly, parting his lips and pressing them to the constable's wrist. Pain shot up Arthur's arm and he winced, all blur gone for the briefest moment before everything went dark.

* * *

Crude morning light forced his eyes open and the constable groaned, uselessly attempting to sink his head further into the pillow. He would need to be up soon, leave the pleasant warmth of his little bed and face the cold of the poorly heated room. The night's rest had helped his state somewhat, enough to keep him able to work for another day.

Alfred had not stirred for now, so it couldn't have been yet time to wake. Concluding that, the green-eyed blond decided to curl up under the covers for a little bit longer, letting the drowsiness of sleep wear off gradually. He tucked his hands under the pillow, his sleeves being pulled up slightly with the motion and then he felt it – faint, barely there but present nevertheless, the sweet, poisonous, intoxicating scent of roses.

_**To be continued** _

 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N – Hello my dear readers! I know this update is long overdue, however I’m much relieved that I managed to ease the fics workload significantly lately, so I will be able to dedicate myself more to this project. As you may or may not anticipate, things are getting really dark beginning with this chapter, so there, I said it!

Warnings: violence, character death, dark non-con.

Chapter 3 soundtrack:

Ang Laga De - Full Song - Goliyon Ki Rasleela Ram-leela

Apocalytica – Path feat. Sandra Nasic (remix)

Apocalyptica – Hope vol.II

Kuroshitsuji – Never More

Korn - System

 

* * *

 

He refused to think of it, yet bits of the disturbing dream stubbornly came back, in obnoxious flashes. Light green eyes took in absentmindedly the bleak city sight beyond the window, bathed in pale late autumn light. Under the black, thick fabric of his uniform coat, buttoned tightly all the way up to his neck, Arthur shivered, the much-too-vivid memory of that man’s touch plaguing his skin.

“Arthur!”

The detective turned, finally shaken out of his daze and suddenly becoming aware of the frown on his own face as Alfred looked at him a bit puzzled. He forced a more neutral expression, hoping to avoid any questions which could not be answered, except with more lies. “Yes?”

The younger sighed, relaxing. “I was just saying that yesterday… well… Mrs. Zwingli has finally agreed to let me take Lilly for a walk in the park on Sunday, after church.” A slight blush was on his sun-kissed cheeks as he spoke, gaze dropping almost immediately to his plate, but happy grin lingering nevertheless. 

“Oh well, now that’s definitely… some progress, I suppose,” the Englishman observed, mustering a small smile in turn as he reached for the steaming cup of tea the landlady had just poured. He murmured a quick ‘thank you’ while nodding to the kind Mrs. Briggs and struggling as to what else to say under the circumstances. “… and Lilly Zwingli is a fine young lady.” Damn, he could have at least shown _some_ enthusiasm at the news, the boy had had his eyes on her for a while now. Now poor Alfred would think he was being discouraging, or worse, disapproving of this.

Sure enough, the other constable’s good humor seemed to dissolve suddenly, and he started to toy nervously with his napkin. There, now he’d done it! Arthur sipped on his own tea tensely, not knowing what to say to make it better. He wasn’t normally _that_ awkward, but now he was just so tired.

“You know, I felt encouraged when the Frenchman said that, well, if I work hard enough and fight hard enough I will find happiness,” Alfred said, fidgeting. “But then, last night, after I spoke with Mrs. Zwingli and saw Lilly, I was thinking of him again…”

The green-eyed blond scowled, irritation spiking up upon the mention of the dreadful man who had even begun plaguing his dreams. “Now why would you think of that frog?! We got what we wanted from him – for what is worth… or isn’t – but aside from that there’s no point in dwelling upon the subject.” He breathed in, trying to keep annoyance from seeping too much into his tone. “Besides, you’d do well to think of happier things than of somebody living in a filthy opium den, especially now.”

The American blinked, shrugging helplessly as his mouth pursed into a grimace. “I know, but… Arthur, have you ever thought what it would be like… to be that kind of man, you know, the kind ladies always seem to swoon over?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“I just can’t help thinking that if Lilly were ever to meet the Frenchman, she would find me awfully plain and dull in comparison,” Alfred confessed morosely. “That if she doesn’t find me plain and dull as it is…”

The detective put his cup down and discreetly pinched the bridge of his nose. So this was it, then! The poor boy now thought of himself less because of that ridiculous clown. Involuntarily, his fingers found their way under his sleeve and he pushed it up a bit, exposing the bitten wrist. Arthur flinched slightly, as if his flesh still remembered that sharp pain, but the pale skin was flawless, unmarred. Oh, for God’s sake, it had been only a bloody dream! 

“Nonsense! I’m sure that Miss Zwingli is a sensible young woman, and she would never be wooed by such a character,” he said at length. “Besides, whatever charms the man possesses will be quickly lost to opium. He will wither and age long before his time, just like everyone else given to this appalling vice.”  

Alfred raised his head and smiled a bit. “You’re right, I guess… We shall speak of it no more.” 

* * *

 

Sleeping in that awful den and implicitly inhaling the opium smoke as he did must have caused him to hallucinate the previous night, Arthur decided as they left the house for the day’s work. It must have been the mixture of fever and wicked drug which had made the dream appear so vivid too, the Englishman told himself, for once grateful to be outside in the cold but for once refreshing late autumn air, however harmful it was for his fragile health.

The streets became filthier and less crowded as the two constables advanced towards their destination, the fog from the Thames growing ever thicker as they drew closer to the banks. They walked quickly, yet trying not to appear to be in too much hurry and thus cause any suspicion. The detective really hoped that the Frenchman had not sent them on some wild goose chase (or else he swore that he would find a way to cause some sort of inconvenience for that ridiculous _clairvoyant_ frog!), especially since he’d had to call for several men to back him and Alfred up in case it turned to be something.  

Soon they found themselves at the indicated location – a rather large but decrepit looking brick building near the water. Arthur pulled out the piece of paper from his pocket and scowled again at the flamboyant handwriting, before looking up at the house, thoughtfully assessing the chipping paint of the wooden door with a crooked brass knob. One of the windows on the first floor was broken and covered with wooden planks from the inside, while the other donned a ragged curtain.   

“Who exactly are we supposed to find here?”

The question made the green-eyed blond snap out of his musings, turning to face his colleague. “Oh… right. Dr. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo,” he replied. “Apparently some illegally immigrated doctor, he has no papers, or so the Frenchman has gathered. He lives here in hiding, together with his lover. They might be dangerous.” 

“What, you think the lady is one of those-”

“There is no _lady_ ,” the Englishman cut the younger off dryly. “The frog says that the doctor’s lover is a man.”

Alfred blinked. “Wha- another _man_?! But h-how-“

“It’s not important, Alfred! Now come.” The detective rolled his eyes, once more irritated by the importance his friend seemed to give to whatever bollocks the Frenchman had delivered. After all, it was the man’s job to produce fantastic details meant to make fools gape in awe and fill his pockets. Thus, it was all the more unfortunate that they had to rely on _his_ information. Bloody frog!

Fighting back the ever growing reluctance, he went up the front steps and, unable to locate any doorbell, knocked firmly at the door. As expected, even after a while there was no answer, no footsteps seeming to approach the door from the inside. Sighing, the blond motioned for one of the backup policemen to come forth and pick the lock with a special tool. He reckoned it was somewhat more prudent than simply breaking the door and barging in, since they didn’t know what to expect.   After the man had finished his work on the lock, he pushed the door open slowly, eliciting a faint creak.

“Step back and wait here,” Arthur ordered, stepping past the policeman and into the dark hallway and motioning for the American to follow quietly. He blinked, taking in the obscurity, hand digging instantly into his pocket for the handkerchief. The all too familiar scent of death was lingering in the stale air, making it hard to breathe.

His stomach cringed – God, he only hoped they weren’t going to just find yet another body and no leads! Green eyes swept warily over the peeling wallpaper on the walls and the dirty floor, bearing the mark of countless muddy footprints, eventually coming to rest upon the frame of a door opening somewhere to the left, which allowed some light to pour in. Gripping his truncheon tightly (it was a handy weapon able to do enough damage in case of need), Arthur took a forced breath through the thin cloth and walked carefully down the hallway, keeping his steps as light as possible.

It was too quiet – the type of ominous silence which would usually fall when a noise stopped abruptly – and the detective instinctively intuited that there was someone in there, hidden, now lying in wait. The smell got worse the closer he got to the door and the blond shuddered in anticipated disgust, secretly wishing he could pause and indulge, however briefly, in the comfort of his scotch flask.    

“Arthur, do you think-“

The younger constable’s question was cut short when something rolled down on the floor, out of the room and into the hallway, right in front of them, with a startling sound. It was just a larger bottle cork. Alfred snorted, but the green-eyed blond swore under his breath. Whoever it was, this was a sign that they wanted a fight.

“ _Bastardo_ , come out and fight, if you have the guts!” a voice shouted suddenly. “I hope you do, we’ll have something to munch on, later!” it added, followed by a bloodcurdling laughter.

Swearing some more, Arthur put the handkerchief aside and motioned for the policeman who was waiting outside by the door to walk in with the rest of the men. “Get ready,” he told his friend. The next second he barged into the room, tense like a bow and taking it in one glance in search of potential attackers, but saw no one. Instead, his gaze was distracted by the gruesome remains lying on display on the wooden table which occupied the center of the room, which had turned out to be a kitchen of sorts. Again a doll-like face with a silk ribbon tied around the neck captured his gaze, except now the eyes were open, staring back at him empty, forever caught in a frozen fright. Again there was hardly any blood anywhere - as if it had been carefully drained from the corpse before hacking it to pieces – and the memory of that awful dream returned brusquely, causing Arthur to falter as his knees went weak.

Right then, with a loud thud, a dark-haired man jumped from somewhere onto the table, hovering crouched above the remains like a predator over his meal, dark-green eyes glinting with malice and a feral grin on his face. Gasping, the Englishman drew back into the hallway, bumping into the other constable. But the man pursued, launching forward in one jump with incredible speed, avoiding the blond’s attempted blow and throwing a side punch which had the detective’s head successfully collide with the hard wooden frame.

“Antonio, crush them!” the voice shrieked again, before the sound of broken glass was heard and a second man sought to escape through the window.

“Hold it right there! Stop him!”

Drawing a shaky breath, Arthur barely registered that he’d collapsed onto the ground and made an effort to sit up, watching as his attacker, who had pushed past him and Alfred and had started up the stairs, pursued by the American, turned around brusquely and got a hold of the younger constable, one hand viciously closing around the blue-eyed blond’s neck despite the other’s attempt to fight him.

 Good God, that monster was killing him! The detective’s fingers found their way around the pistol as he hastily pulled it out and took aim, but his hand was shaking too badly. He fired anyway and luckily the man appeared to be frightened, because he released his prey – but not before throwing such a powerful punch that Alfred was sent flying into the wainscot and tumbled down all the way to the bottom of the stairs.

Somehow, spurred by the adrenaline surge, the Englishman found himself on his feet again and he rushed after the man up the stairs, determined not to let the bastard escape him. It seemed that the suspect was no longer willing to put up a fight, now faced with a gun, but he sought to run and Arthur would not allow it. The man nearly ripped open the door at the top of the stairs, dashing out, and the green-eyed blond saw that it led outside, to a narrow wooden bridge made to link the house to another. The boards creaked dangerously under the man’s feet as he rushed across, making him slow down and grip the railing.

Arthur didn’t hesitate – he wasn’t quick enough to catch up and this one was too strong to be successfully engaged in close combat – he took aim and fired twice, the first bullet hitting the man’s leg and making him stumble, while the other pierced his shoulder blade. Most likely it wasn’t a mortal wound, but the policeman didn’t actually care. He’d been found with yet another body, hovering about it like the predator that he was, a madman driven by diabolical bloodlust.   

Several other shots resounded somewhere in the distance, while the blond slumped to the ground, panting hard and leaning against one of the small poles sustaining the fragile railing. A violent coughing fit shook his exhausted body, forcing his eyes closed as he allowed himself to draw his breath for a bit. The man lay nearby, face down on the boards, panting and moaning in pain but unable to move, to crawl away as the constable slammed his boot into his side spitefully, hardly resisting the temptation to kick him into the murky water below and watch him drown like the beast that he was.

* * *

 

Dr. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had been apprehended – indeed this was the name of the beast he’d injured – while his companion, some unidentified fellow the doctor had called ‘Lovino’ in his erratic cries, had been shot dead by the other policemen after attempting to flee. The case seemed to have been solved for now – thanks to the ridiculous fortuneteller no less – but Arthur would not think of it. No, he should have been resting, except…

His eyelids dropped shut heavily as the constable slowly folded his handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket, but the image of the rosy stain on the immaculate cloth continued to linger, as inescapable and inevitable as any other death sentence. His chest still heaved a bit after the cough had eventually subsided, aching and feeling sinisterly hollow. Arthur sat there helpless, eyes still closed and arms slowly rising to hug himself tightly as a soft sob left his lips. So, this was it, beyond doubt - he was going to… Well.

He’d put some money aside in the course of time, so at least the burial expenses would be covered. A bitter smile made its way on the blond’s lips at the sudden thought of acquiring a fancy resting place. Well, not fancy per say, but fairly decent. He wondered what type of coffin wood was in fashion these days – oak, maple, poplar? Walnut didn’t look half bad, was it expensive? Maybe he should actually go through the trouble of finding out the details. Maybe there was some assuredness to be found in one knowing with relative precision when they would leave this world.

“Arthur, what are you doing?”

The voice nearly startled the detective – he’d been so caught up in his grim (but nevertheless quite practical, he figured) thoughts that he’d failed to notice his younger friend enter the room entirely. But now Alfred stood in front of him, a worried scowl on his youthful face, baby-blue eyes clouded with concern.

“You left the dinner table so abruptly and scared poor Mrs. Briggs! She’s worried about you! God, you’re so pale and look so worn… “ The American kneeled by the bedside and pressed his palm against Arthur’s forehead before the other could even think of moving. “Look, you have a fever too!” 

The green-eyed blond looked up at him at last, lips pressed and gulping as he realized that it was the time for the truth to be said. And it was going to break the poor boy’s heart.

“Arthur, I’ve been thinking, you know…” Alfred said, sitting down next to his friend awkwardly but gripping both his hands in his almost with urgency. “Y-You can’t go on working like that, it’s obvious that you’re exerting yourself far more than you should and… and… I have a small inheritance left from my mother, I-I could take care of you-“

“Absolutely not!”

The detective instantly regretted the harshness of his tone as the other’s face fell and shook his head, giving a reassuring squeeze to the warm fingers holding his. “Alfred, please! I mean, thank you, but please, don’t even think of it!” he murmured, looking away. “That is your money and by God you will need it for yourself, for your future. So please-“

“But Arthur, I have no one but you! You’re more than a friend, you took care of me, you’re like family to me, I love you like a brother! You have to let me help you!”

The Englishman exhaled, slowly, shakily, forcing himself to look his younger friend in the eye as he replied. “Alfred, it’s _consumption_.“ He paused and bit his lower lip, as if in the process of admitting some fact he was guilty of. “It would be a waste of what your mother left you, we would only be delaying the inevitable…”

But the other shook his head, stubbornly, as his eyes filled and shone with tears. “NO! No, you can’t, Arthur! You can’t leave me! N-not like this! First mother and now you, it’s not fair! It’s not fair! Please, Arthur, please…” His voice faded into helpless sobs and unintelligible mutterings as he hugged the detective, burying his nose into his shoulder and hugging him desperately.

* * *

 

After the exhausting attempts to calm his young friend and convince him to have some rest in turn, Arthur had fallen into an agitated sleep, full of nondescript nightmares dominated by the faces of the dead girls. But now he was awake again for some reason and blinked sleepily, making an effort to raise his head and throw a squinted gaze around in the semi-obscurity.

The only source of light was a small oil lamp burning in a corner of the tiny room with suffocating low ceiling and floor entirely covered by the mattress he was now lying onto. The room was separated by a ragged and rather transparent curtain from the alcove with the small cot where the Frenchman usually sat – this room probably served as his bedroom, he reckoned. But what the hell was _he_ doing here?! No, no, it had to be one of those awful dreams again! Hell… 

And once more everything was much too vivid, the smell of opium smoke and mold from the walls and old cloths was pungent, the mind-numbing, distressing darkness, the muffled sounds of the rest of the den – coughs, laughter, some occasional scream. Good God, this place was Hell, the blond thought, hauling himself up on his knees with some difficulty and then shifting to a sitting position. The cold wall against his back had him instantly wincing and leaning forward, all the more since he was only in his shirt, now creased and dirty.  

Then the curtain was pulled and the accursed Frenchman crept inside, an ominous smirk onto his flawless face. Arthur instinctively pulled back, hugging himself while inwardly pondering that it was no use to ask why he was here this time. His question was about to be answered soon enough anyway.

“ _Petit lapin_!” Francis said seriously, shaking a few loose strands away from his pale forehead. “Did you know, today is a Thursday and I usually have cravings on Thursdays. Normally I would have had them satisfied against the mattress, but you have been particularly naughty – shooting one of my pets, no less! – therefore I shall have them satisfied against that hard wall over there!” he declared.

Before Arthur could make any sense of his words, in the next moment his lanky frame lunged forward, predatorily, and one hand got the smaller blond’s shoulder into an iron grip, hauling him up on his knees and slamming his back against the wall.

“What the hell?! Let me go!” the Englishman protested, wide-eyed and struggling to push the hand away, but the man was _impossibly_ strong. Struggling turned to desperate thrashing while the other simply chuckled, tilting his head and leaning down to bite at his prey’s neck, while his free hand worked to unbutton and open his shirt. Once that done, he forcefully turned the policeman around, this time shoving him face first against the wall. Arthur groaned as his cheekbone collided painfully with the cold, humid bricks and he unsuccessfully tried to amortize the impact with his hands. Mortar and crumbles dug into the heels of his palms while the other’s body pressed him against the hard surface, allowing no escape.

“Sir, unhand me this instant! What-… what do you want to do?!”

This time he was graced with an answer, which the Frenchman murmured sensuously into his exposed ear. “Ah, well, what was that rather ancient expression? I believe… _Fornicate Under King’s Consent_ …?”

Green eyes widened in shock and the young man froze, his breath catching in his throat. “W-what now?”

“You heard me, constable.” The man’s intentions were fully clarified when Arthur’s trousers and underwear were pulled down unceremoniously.

“You wouldn’t dare, sir!” Hell, he had hoped for more firmness in his words, but only a choked, feeble croak came out between groans of discomfort, since now more of his naked skin was prey to the cold and rugged surface.

Francis seemed greatly amused at the other’s statement, playfully nipping at the shell of his ear. “Oh, and what wouldn’t I dare, _petit lapin_? This?”

A burning and horribly intense pain suddenly shot upwards from the base of his spine and Arthur screamed, nails digging and clawing helplessly into the bricks he was forcefully propped against. “AAAAAAAAAAARGH! LET GO OF ME YOU BLOODY FROG!” The only reply he got was another powerful thrust, mercilessly ripping at his insides, forcing more screams out of his throat. The agonizing pain had squeezed his eyes shut as he was being torn and bruised inside and out and had turned his breath into short, sharp gasps which left his lungs burning.

“Aaaaaaaahn s-stop! D-Damn you!” Another. “Please, stop!” Another.  With each thrust the detective’s voice lost its strength until it became a mere whimper, Arthur himself reduced to a quivering, sobbing mess. “P-please…”

“Patience, constable, I’m looking for a little something and once I find it there will be a major… shift in perspective, if I may say so,” Bonnefoy promised chuckling, pulling the young man backwards into his lap and running his hands soothingly up and down his trembling, parted thighs.

He slowed his movements as the green-eyed blond’s head fell back onto his shoulder, his exhausted prey now utterly subdued and no longer trying to escape his grip. Arthur was becoming almost numb with pain and horror, before a spike of hot, searing pleasure was suddenly mixed into his agony at a shift of angle and he desperately muffled a moan, biting into his lower lip until he drew blood as the other’s fingers were intertwined with his against the wall.

“Just so you know, constable, that little redhead – the third one if I recall correctly - was particularly delicious,” Francis said, between his own gasps as he bucked his hips upwards in a steady rhythm. “Not as delicious as you, but quite so… and since I am a good master I am in the habit of feeding my _dogs_ the leftovers of my meals. Besides, the body was an inconvenience and I had to get rid of it, _n’est-ce pas_?”

What…? No, surely it had been the doctor who… The Englishman’s horror clouded brain struggled to grasp the idea. “N-no… it c-cannot be… why…?” Surely, it must have been some sick joke devised by this endlessly foul and perverted man, but Arthur could ask no more, choked by violent cough and cringing as he felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

“Why? _Parce que je suis La Mort, mon petit lapin_ ,” the taller blond hummed, sliding the shirt off the policeman’s shoulders and licking the pale skin of his neck. “And because I am a drinker of beauty, feeding off the very nectar of this world.”

* * *

 

The Frenchman carefully arranged a pillow under Arthur’s head and wrapped the blanket around his disheveled form. The poor bunny had passed out during his second feeding and could not be momentarily brought back to his senses. “There, _mon petit lapin_. Your very purity, so roughly taken, was the price for the information I gave you tonight,” he whispered tenderly, pressing a light kiss onto the flushed cheek and enjoying the special warmth brought about by fever.

Next to him, Elizaveta leaned in to take a closer look at the sleeping blond. “Oh my, his lips are so beautiful.” They were bitten and swollen, all the more endearing. “Can I kiss him?” She tried to lean further, but a firm hand pushed her away as Francis tsked.

“Oh, why would you want to kiss a British pipsqueak with a stick up his ass? Besides, not even I have dared touch his lips! You see, he did not give me his permission…”

The Hungarian’s eyes widened, then she burst into laughter.“Dear God, Monsieur Bonnefoy, aren’t you the epitome of virtue! But did you – pray tell – have _his permission_ to fuck him senseless against the wall?”

“I don’t expect you to understand, but on some deep level _that_ was consented. I know he wants me,” replied the fortuneteller simply, a candid smile lingering on his lips as his fingers descended to tread through Arthur’s hair.

The brunette rolled her eyes. “Modest too. You think that everyone wants you.”

Francis lifted an eyebrow and sighed dramatically. “Indeed, everyone does. Even you do, _ma chere_ Eliza, but sadly for you it is not mutual. One must be truly special for me to find them covetable.” Typical words for the infuriating bastard she knew him to be at times. And even if she knew that it was impossible, it would have still been extremely entertaining if his ridiculous infatuation with the English constable brought about his doom.

Next to her Arthur shifted under the blanket and moaned softly in his troubled sleep, his lithe frame then shaken by a sudden cough which made him curl up into a tight ball.

“I know you think it’s cruel of me to feast on him in this absolute and degrading manner,” the blue-eyed blond said, “But do you not see, Elizaveta? He will die anyway.”

**_To be continued_ **

_Parce que je suis La Mort, mon petit lapin_ – _Because I am Death, my little bunny_

A/N – Some medical facts about Arthur’s condition: the classic symptoms of active tuberculosis infection are a [chronic cough](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cough) with [blood-tinged](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hemoptysis) [sputum](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sputum), [fever](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fever), [night sweats](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Night_sweats), and [weight loss](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weight_loss), the latter giving rise to the formerly common term for the disease, " **consumption** ". In Europe, rates of tuberculosis began to rise in the early 1600s to a peak level in the 1800s, when it caused nearly 25% of all deaths. Tuberculosis was thought of as an incurable disease at the time.

****


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

**_Chapter 4 soundtrack:_ **

Marilyn Manson - If I Was Your Vampire

Evanescence – Lies

Kuroshitsuji OST – The dark crow smiles (instrumental)

Apocalyptica - Fade to Black

AFI – Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep

* * *

 

“I’m actually curious as to what he’ll have to say for himself,” Alfred said, pacing around the small room as he got dressed for the day. “The Spanish doctor, I mean. Did you not say he is to be interrogated today?” But all the energetic youth got in reply was a low groan and his face fell a bit as he sat down on the edge of his friend’s bed. An almost shy hand felt for Arthur’s shoulder over the blanket, rubbing it gently.

“Arthur? It’s time to wake up… I brought up some hot water, the boiler’s working again.”

Dried sweat made the nightshirt stick to his back as the other blond shifted between the sheets, letting out a deep sigh. Good God, he was _so tired_ and his body ached horribly, as if a carriage had run him over. His throat felt raw and lips dry, probably he’d coughed in his sleep a lot.

“Are you unwell? Can I get you anything?”

The Englishman licked his lips, forcing himself out of lethargy and dreading how his voice was going to sound. _Unwell_ was an understatement. But today was an important day and he had to be on his feet, he _would_ bloody be on his feet until the end and not burden the boy who saw him like an older brother.

“I’m f-fine…” he managed with a small nod. “Go on, Mrs. Briggs must have the breakfast ready. I’ll… be down shortly.”

It was almost a relief when the door closed behind the younger constable, Arthur would have hated for the boy to witness his pathetic struggle for getting out of bed. Damn, he would have to pay the doctor a visit again, he’d not been told that the illness, if confirmed, would make such rapid progress. Also, although fever wasn’t a new occurrence, the doctor had not said anything about hallucinations and the detective had ended up fearing them more than the physical symptoms. He’d been convinced that the first dream had been because of opium smoke, but the previous night it had happened again, much, much worse, far more vividly, therefore it had to be the fever. Arthur could ultimately deal with the thought of dying, but still, he hoped he wasn’t losing his mind as well.

With considerable effort, the blond dragged himself out of bed and pulled his nightshirt over his head, moving to stand over the still steaming copper bowl and reaching for a washcloth. The hot water soothed his aching muscles a tiny bit, but the sudden sight of the bruises marring the usual paleness of his skin startled the constable and made him flinch as he stared in horror at his reflection in the bowl in the crude morning light. There was a particularly foul-looking one just above his collarbone, several dotting his arms and some even on his… hips?

Arthur blinked in shock, his mind replaying the memory of the Spaniard jumping onto the table from nowhere, then lunging at him viciously, punching his side (his ribs ached in proof of that) before slamming his head into the doorframe. He’d collapsed to the ground and that had been it… hardly justifying the other marks he was now observing. No, the other marks matched _the dream_ , here was where _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy had bit his neck first, after he’d gripped his arms to hold him still and afterwards…

Washcloth abandoned, the green-eyed young man propped his hands on the table top on either side of the bowl, absently curving his body backwards, in an instinctive attempt to stretch. It turned out to be a very bad idea. The same sharp pain he’d felt when sitting up in bed returned, shooting up his spine with renewed force and forcing a yelp from his lips. A confused scowl showed on his face as he panted, struggling for an explanation. Even if he’d had his (rather limited, if he was to be honest) share of experience with certain ladies’ _paid service_ , like most of his colleagues, Arthur had never given thought of how a man could force himself on another and besides… it was impossible! It was absurd to entertain the idea that somehow he’d been taken out of his bed during the night – or made to go to that god-awful place again without his will or knowledge for that matter – subjected to those unspeakable things and then brought back just like that, without anyone noticing. After all, Alfred slept in the same room!

There must have been a logical explanation behind it all, but what he was speculating now was simply madness. Whatever it was, Arthur momentarily decided that he would not give in to madness.

* * *

 

For once the detective wished his younger colleague had been his usual cheery, talkative self instead of this brooding mood Alfred was currently displaying while stealing worried glances in his direction every now and then. It really wasn’t helping. He stopped on the large, rain-washed steps of the police station and turned brusquely, looking the other in the eye.

“Alfred, you must swear to me that you won’t tell anyone anything about… my condition. I can’t have the Chief Inspector bury me before my time,” Arthur said, forcing a wry smile as his words were lost in an ill-humored grumble.

Baby-blue eyes shot up full of dread, but the younger nodded wordlessly, unable to conceal chagrin in any other way than by silence. In turn the other blond sighed, patting his shoulder in a fashion he deemed comforting, while secretly hoping that things would be progressing soon between Alfred and Lilly Zwingli. Alfred was young, he ought to be thinking of happiness, of his future, of more promising stuff than this. Arthur himself was barely twenty-four, now that he thought of it, but he would probably not live to see thirty, so he didn’t have to bother making plans.

The captured Spaniard – Dr. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo – had been taken to the basement for interrogation, before he was to be sent to prison until the trial. There was an atmosphere of anticipation in regard to this and the detective thought it was to be expected, seeing how the man had turned out to be the perpetrator of a long string of horrible murders.

He imagined that the Chief Inspector must have had his hands full with the press in the past hours, but not enough to have the smug smile wiped from beneath the thick mustache. And in return for his success Arthur expected not any particular praise, but at least a couple of days off to rest for a bit.

Indeed, unaffected by supposed fatigue, the Chief Inspector wanted to conduct the interrogation himself, which proved somewhat of a relief to the worn out blond. Alfred was fretting impatiently by his side through the proceedings, probably oscillating between curiosity and revulsion, but Arthur found himself unable to follow the words beings said for the most part, instead caught in a sort of sick fascination to observe the man. Carriedo didn’t bother answering many questions anyway, and he showed neither remorse nor fear, even if a while spent in shackles in the damp police basement usually managed to crack the toughest of people. Unless they were mad and the doctor was undoubtedly a madman.

His wounds were doing unexpectedly well too – Arthur noticed with a scowl – he wasn’t even slumping in his bonds after standing for what must have been hours. But then he had proven unusual strength all along, tossing poor Alfred against the wall like he was nothing, and the lad was pretty sturdy. On top of it, the Chief Inspector shoved a truncheon in the man’s stomach every time his angry questioning was met with disdainful laughter, but to little effect.       

Eventually, it was over and the people gradually retired from the room after finding next to nothing new. Carriedo had offered no rational motivation (if ‘rational’ motivation was to be expected) for what he’d done to his victims, other than he’d enjoyed the taste of their flesh. A madman through and through, if the look in his eye left any room for doubt.

And things would have been left at that, if he hadn’t made one odd request at the end.

“A word if you don’t mind, detective… Kirkland, is it?” the Spaniard panted, an amused gleam in his eyes as the policeman turned.

Arthur suspected the man had something to say to the one who’d personally captured him, perhaps some threat of sorts, a curse even, but in the end he found himself complying, seeing no harm in listening to a bit more filth for the day.

“Well?”

He walked up and stopped right under Carriedo’s nose, with a stern expression and expectant, and the doctor’s gaze travelled interestedly from his face down to his body, slowly, as if he were assessing the blond. The man’s tongue darted to lick his chapped lips, then he chuckled lowly.

“My Master still speaks to me, you know?” he whispered, leaning to murmur secretively in the detective’s ear. “He tells me of his doings… For example, last night he told me about how he punished you for what you did to me… He told me how the whole of the Little Underworld heard you squealing as he took you against the wall…”

The Englishman’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly as they stared blankly somewhere past Carriedo’s shoulder, on the dirty wall. His stomach cringed for the second time that day as he was pulled from apathy and washed over with a cold wave of fear. That was to say… everything… was… _true_? No, no, _what_ was true? What the Frenchman had done to him? No, there was something else, something worse, it was… the truth about the murders.

 _‘Not as delicious as you, but quite so… and since I am a good master I am in the habit of feeding_ my dogs _the leftovers of my meals. Besides, the body was an inconvenience and I had to get rid of it,_ n’est ce pas _?’_

Glimpses of the dead, doll-like faces and of puncture wounds carefully hidden beneath fine silk ribbons, the Frenchman’s smile, his unnatural, hard and perfect flesh, his sapphire gaze burning with a secret lust for blood flashed before his eyes as all the dots were suddenly, horribly connected even if everything was beyond absurd and Arthur was suddenly sick, he couldn’t take it anymore, he wanted to drop dead right then and there.

 “It looked to him though as if you enjoyed your punishment, because you moaned and begged like a little slut! But don’t worry, _little bunny_ , he will take you and ravish you again, and again, and-”

The man’s words were cut short when Arthur’s fist flew up viciously and collided with his jaw, hard enough for the detective to hear a slight crack of the other’s bones.

“Very soon you will hang for your crimes, so worry about that instead, _Doctor_!” the blond hissed, gripping the Spaniard’s chin onto which fresh blood was now trickling from his mouth and forcing his head upwards. “But do not be troubled, after your neck has snapped I will make sure that your beloved Master follows you down to Hell!”

* * *

 

Fortunately, Alfred had agreed to respect his desire to brood in solitude for now, the Englishman wandered aimlessly down the rain washed streets, uselessly trying to fight off the growing feeling of dread eating away at his very core. If _that_ had been a dream, then how could the doctor know about it? And if it hadn’t been… it meant that the Frenchman was in fact the murderer and he’d only given one of his sinister minions into their hands.  But then, who was this man? Or _what_?

‘ _Something impure,_ unholy.’

* * *

 

Admittedly, Arthur didn’t know what he was doing anymore. Usually a methodical man, he was now without a plan, without as much as a trace of logic left. Looking up at the grim façade of the church looming in the fading light, the detective told himself that what he was about to do was only going to feed emerging insanity. He walked in nevertheless, his steps slow but determined, eyeing his surroundings carefully. Maybe going to their neighborhood church had not been such a good idea for what he was about to accomplish – it would have appeared odd to say the least if he were to be seen – but to his momentary relief there was no one in sight for now.

The green-eyed blond stopped in front of the holy water barrel and took a deep breath before slowly removing his leather glove. He looked around for a cup of sorts, but there was none – people brought their own recipients to take away – so there was no choice but to hold his hand directly under the faucet and let a bit run over his bare skin.

And he did.

The pain erupting in the flat of his palm and rapidly spreading to his fingers and shooting up his arm as his skin was literally scorched made his knees go weak and Arthur desperately pressed his other hand over his mouth to muffle a scream. Tears stung his eyes as he pulled the wounded appendage to his chest, fingers curled and digging helplessly into the fabric of his uniform.

Impure. Unholy. That was what he’d become, after being touched by that beast with human appearance.

“May I help you, constable?”

The voice nearly had the detective jumping out of his skin, but the blond fought to straighten his back and compose himself at least to some extent before turning around to face the newcomer. Naturally, he’d recognized Father Ludwig even without seeing him – by his strong voice and heavy steps – but now he suddenly experienced a visceral fear of the man, as if upon discovery the priest would capture and rip him apart or something. It was an absurd assumption, but still… Arthur turned around slowly, making an effort to look the taller, solid blond in the eye. Could the other tell what happened to him?

“No, I… Well, I was looking for someone, but they’re not here, it seems,” he offered as naturally as he could, letting his gaze wander over the pews, past the priest’s frame.

Father Ludwig Beilschmidt stepped forward, eyes taking in the Englishman’s frame and his awkwardly held hand and he scowled slightly, as if gripped by suspicion. “Are you sure that everything is alright, sir?” he insisted.

“Quite sure, Father, I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” the other said quickly, retreating towards the exit. “I must be on my way now, so… have a good evening.”

* * *

 

To bed… He was too exhausted to sit up at the desk any longer. Alfred had gone to see Lilly again and he was late, Arthur could no longer wait for him to explain anything. Judging by how he was feeling, he would pass out soon from sheer fatigue. Holding his head propped in the heel of his palm, the detective held up the letter he’d been scribbling frantically for the past half hour, wondering if his younger friend would make any sense of it. His handwriting was messy as usual and there were a few splotches of ink as well marring the sheet, yet he deemed the text intelligible enough.

But would Alfred actually believe any of that? The only palpable proof was the horrid burn the green-eyed blond had hastily bandaged with a piece of clean cloth and he had no intention of explaining the whole story behind it. He’d _had_ to put everything to paper though… who knew what was to happen once he laid his head on the pillow? Maybe he was to be taken again, maybe he was never to wake up, either way Alfred had to know.

* * *

 

The constable’s eyes snapped open, body tense and ears alert at the sudden sound. There was _someone_ in the room, someone who was not Alfred. Arthur’s hand moved slowly, slipping under the pillow to retrieve the pistol as he shifted lightly under the blanket. He had yet to see who the intruder was, but his intuition was hardly in need of confirmation. As he eventually propped himself up a bit on the pillows a tall figure came into view against the faint light coming in from a street lamp – and it was none other than the accursed _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy.

The detective’s hand rose, pistol at the ready and pointing it at the man before asking sternly. “What are you doing here, sir?”

“My fingers have known every inch of your skin and my body has become one with yours, yet I have still to know your first name, constable,” the Frenchman said in lieu of any other explanation, his long pale fingers resting against the low window frame.

“Arthur…” the other grumbled, right before a nasty coughing fit shook his lithe body under the covers. He resisted the need to pull them tighter around himself, his gaze never leaving the man standing at the foot of the bed. Why was _he_ the one answering the questions?

“Well, then, _mon cher_ Arthur, let me tell that you will not pull the trigger. And even if you do, the damage inflicted to my body will be minimal and easily remedied, thus the effort of your movement will be an utter waste.”

Green eyes blinked sleepily as their owner struggled helplessly to focus, the hand holding up the pistol surprisingly steady, its aim still without flaw.

“You sir, are an abomination.”

“Quite so.”

The next moment - barely registered by the smaller blond – the dark shadow lunged forward, over the bed and his free hand was gripped and pressed against the sheets. Francis leaned over, a few long and curly strands escaping from the midnight blue silk of the ribbon and their tips nearly brushing against the side of the detective’s face.

 _“_ In this truly dark and unfortunate hour, I have a mind to ask of the ultimate forbidden pleasure, _mon petit lapin._ So… Arthur… would you give me your lips? Would you give yourself to me at last, completely, body and soul?”

Arthur moaned softly, a light scowl creasing his brow as his thumb pulled back the hammer and the muzzle of the pistol was pressed into the blonde locks, where the predator’s temple would be.

“Give you, _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy?!” He breathed hard, sensing he was about to choke again in another fit. “What is there left to give, have you not had everything already?”

Dark blue bore into light green as the Frenchman leaned lower, the tip of his nose nearly touching the other man’s. Then he spoke slowly and softly, as if in confession. “I have indeed, _mon cher_. I have had almost all of my heart’s desires and more than any man could ever dream of. But you see, everything I’ve had I have taken. Shamelessly so…” He chuckled at the last word, his cold breath adding to the lack of heat in the small room.“And now… I crave _to be given_ … more. Will you give me what I crave, Arthur?”  

“Monster… I swore to destroy you! I… “the detective shook his head weakly. “I cannot let you live! You must not live further!”

Teasing lips brushed against his ear as his words only seemed to bring mirth to the beast hovering above him. “But I am not _alive_ at all. I haven’t been in a very long time. Thus, you cannot hope to kill me with lead, only pain me with rejection. Will you truly do that?”

The Englishman somehow managed to yank his other hand free from the man’s grip and his fingers shot up, clawing at the frilly collar and seeking to dig into the throat underneath. The muzzle of the pistol left Francis’ temple and slipped down, under his arm and over his side, until it found its way right under his ribcage. A faint smile crept upon Arthur’s dry, pale lips.

“I’ve nothing left to lose, sir, so I might just as well spare you of further pain as it is,” he whispered. “You can have my lips, as well as my lead.”

Three gunshots resounded in the small, cold room, muffled by the flesh they were directed at. Francis paled, his smile faltering as he gripped the offending hand, pushing it away from his injured body and intertwining his long, slender fingers among the smaller ones, such that the pistol dropped to the floor with a clatter. His other hand was used as support as he moaned in pain and leaned in lower, kissing at last – kissing and biting in the same time – the mouth at last offered to him. A trail of blood slid down the pale cheek from the corner of Arthur’s lips, the Frenchman sighing against them as the body beneath him went limp.

**_To be continued_ **

**A/N – Uh-oh… I’ve been meaning to ask this from the very beginning, my dear readers, how do you think this story is going to end? Will Francis be right and ‘someone with long fingers’ get their hands on his petit lapin? And no, it’s not a poll, what is meant to happen will happen anyway and your hearts will be broken. The question is whether I’ll find some superglue afterwards…**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

_Oubliette - a dungeon with the only entrance or exit being a trap door in the ceiling_ (but I adapted it a bit)

_Allistor – Scotland_

_Mei - Taiwan_

**_Warnings: Non-con and more substance abuse_ **

**_Chapter 5 soundtrack:_ **

Kuroshitsuji OST – The dark crow smiles (instrumental)

TRUTH HURTS + RAKIM - ADDICTIVE

Apocalyptica - Fade to Black

Kuroshitsuji OST 2 ∞ Doll House

Kuroshitsuji OST 1 ∞ Coffin man

* * *

 

Arthur let out a slow, strained breath to leave his lips as his heavy eyelids finally obeyed, allowing him to open his eyes. He found himself lying on his back inside some cold, dark and very cramped space, seemingly allowing for nothing more than his outstretched body. The detective patted blindly, panic beginning to settle in as his fingers found hard, unyielding stone on one side, beneath and right above his nose – such that he was hardly able to lift his head – and some short iron bars on the other side. Good God, it could have only been a crypt of sorts or a sinister oubliette! Had the French demon locked him up in it in revenge for his attempt at taking the monster’s life?! Was he buried alive?!

Turning his head to the left, where the bars were, the blond realised that the bizarre enclosure was embedded into the far wall of the Frenchman’s back room, the one which was separated from his alcove with a ragged curtain. Now the curtain was drawn aside, allowing some light from the candles inside, and he could see the brunette young woman standing guard outside as usual. He had the fleeting thought of crying out for help, but she was the demon’s whore, no doubt, and wouldn’t have done anything against his will. For now all he could do was pant helplessly, feeling a nasty coughing fit on its way.  

“Ah, you are awake, _mon petit lapin_ ,” an all-too-familiar voice said suddenly and Bonnefoy came into view, leaning in to have a closer look at his prisoner’s face. A sinister smile played on his lips as he tsked softly, shaking his head. “I suppose you know _why_ you are here… What you don’t know is that this time there isn’t any sort of ‘dream’, _non_ , now I have claimed you for good, _monsieur_ Arthur, you are not going to escape my grasp ever again.”

But the detective barely registered what the man was saying, the full horror of it. All he knew for the moment was that he couldn’t take another second trapped in that tiny space, hard stone feeling like it was crushing his chest, making it impossible to breathe.

“P-Please, sir,” Arthur panted desperately, although somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was useless to try and change the monster’s mind. “Have mercy! Punish me… a-against the wall again if you must, but let me out… I-I can’t breathe, I beg you!”  

The Frenchman’s eyebrows shot up in surprise for a moment, but he only sighed dramatically. “Oh, but I am punishing you right now, _mon petit lapin_ ,” he replied, patting the wall above the bars. “Besides, what you did to me does not qualify for a mere pounding against the wall, _non_ , therefore I will keep you here until I can find a suitable whip and then I shall use it on you accordingly. So sit tight until then, _monsieur_ Arthur.”

Meanwhile, the constable had somehow managed to turn onto his side and grip the bars with one hand, sticking his nose out in a feeble struggle for more air. The confinement was simply maddening, God, he couldn’t take it! Tears pricked his eyes, soon beginning to slide down his face, but he no longer cared. He wouldn’t beg anymore, there was no point to it, and the blue-eyed blond left without another word. Soon enough he was sobbing so hard that tears eventually choked him and he began to cough, cringing at the slight taste of blood it brought in his mouth.  

* * *

 

“Looks like you had passed out again, _lapin_ , what a pity…”

The words broke into Arthur’s peaceful darkness as he was woken once more, thankfully out of the dreadful prison. Bonnefoy was lying next to him onto the mattress propped on one elbow, that sickening smirk back onto his surreally beautiful face. The green-eyed blond found that he could barely keep his eyes open, but he flinched nevertheless when the other man leaned in and buried his nose in the crook of his neck and the constable felt the sting of sharp teeth breaking into his skin.

When the beast had its fill he was too weak to struggle and the Frenchman must have known, and thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of knowing him at his mercy like that.

So the green-eyed blond had no choice but to lie there on his back, as Monsieur Bonnefoy made slow but sure work of his shirt buttons, exposing his pale chest. He took his time as a lover would – what a mockery! – kissing down his prey’s throat ever-so-gently as his fingers circled a soft nipple, then the other before sliding down over the caved in stomach and teasing the navel. Arthur groaned and fought as much as he could to push away the hand now fumbling to undo his trousers, while unsuccessfully trying to curl up and away from the unwanted touches.

“Now, _mon petit lapin_ , I know you’re feisty,” the Frenchman chided,” but from now on I want you to behave. And I believe you _will_ behave, unless you want me to go after your young friend and his petite fiancée to be.” 

The green-eyed blond froze instantly upon hearing those horrid words, arms dropping limply at his sides. He had not even considered the possibility, but now that it had been stated there was no way he would give the monster a reason to go after Alfred in revenge. It was safely to assume that Bonnefoy did not have any interest in Alfred, at least for now, so Arthur decided it was best not to arouse any. What was the use to try and fight the man? He was dying anyway.

“Ah, _c’est meilleur_ …” the other whispered, rewarding the sudden submission with a kiss. The cold-fingered hands then proceeded to remove the rest of his clothing, giving appreciative caresses to each new patch of exposed skin. Shame burned his cheeks as he was turned around, face down, and a pillow was placed under his hips to lift them up. The Frenchman leaned over, dotting teasing kisses along his spine, all the way to the small of his back. 

Arthur moaned and winced in discomfort as the nimble fingers prodded, invaded his body and worked to stretch him – to little effect because the subsequent intrusion was still quite painful. The man gave a few thrusts, groaning out his pleasure as he held the smaller blond’s hips in a bruising grip, before pulling out unexpectedly, rolling his prey on his back and roughly pushing his knees up to his chest.

“I want you to look at me, _mon petit lapin_ ,” he asked, leaning over to nibble on the constable’s neck as he thrust himself in anew. And again that treacherous spot inside his body sent spikes of pleasure up the Englishman’s spine, forcing a different sort of moans out of his lips. The Frenchman smiled smugly, his skillful tongue moving along his prey’s collarbone and down to one of his nipples. Bonnefoy was at it for a while, ravishing the pale body trapped under him, until his pleasure was sated. Afterwards, he pulled back brusquely and scooted down on the bed, dipping his head between Arthur’s legs and taking him fully in his mouth without warning.

The constable cried out, in both pleasure and shock, hands desperately gripping the sheets as the Frenchman’s tongue was doing wonderful things to him. He writhed and moaned shamelessly as sharp fingernails teasingly grazed the inside of his thighs in the same time as the other’s mouth was working him slowly but surely towards release. And when his orgasm finally hit, the sharp teeth punctured the delicate, tender flesh, creating an agonizing mixture of pleasure and pain.  

* * *

 

The green-eyed blond panted heavily, recovering from the odd high, but since effort did not sit well with him, he started to cough again. The pain in his chest, which had been but a dull ache, grew sharper and the constable helplessly clutched at his chest, having no choice but to wait for the fit to pass. He curled up under the sheets the Frenchman had eventually allowed him to cover with after giving him a thorough cleaning with cold water and a rough sponge, hoping that at least sleep would take him. Only he couldn’t sleep, he was cold and in pain, tears pricking his eyes helplessly as he squeezed the rough fabric in his fists.

“Are you in pain, _lapin_? Here, I will show you that I can reward good behavior,” Francis said good-humoredly, taking the opium pipe out of his mouth and replacing it between the green-eyed blond’s lips. “Here, take a drag, slowly…”

The heavily scented smoke instantly invaded Arthur’s airways, seeping all the way into his tormented lungs as he breathed, surprisingly soothing and relaxing. After what he’d endured, this was bliss. Opium might have been ultimately a poison, but in Arthur’s condition it didn’t matter anyway, thus he was free to indulge in it. And then, after a short while, sleep mercifully took him at last.

* * *

 

_Several days later…_

Arthur woke up covered in a cold sweat, breathing hard and shivering. His hand reached out shakily to the pipe, but his fingers found it cold and empty. With an effort the blond lifted his head to look around, noticing that the Frenchman was nowhere to be seen, while the brunette woman he’d heard him call Elizaveta was apparently dozing off on a cushion, back propped against the wall, and the pipe resting in her limp hand was no longer smoking.  

The detective struggled to sit up, deciding to ignore the odd and unsettling tingling in his limbs as he crawled across the mattress, over to the alcove and eventually swing his legs over the side of the fortuneteller’s sofa. To his surprise, his boots were there, neatly set at the foot of it and for a moment Arthur thought of simply putting them on and sneaking away, while Bonnefoy’s whore was asleep. Only he was too weak to run anywhere, break himself out of this inferno, and it was only a matter of time before the monster found him again, or worse, find Alfred and Lilly Zwingli for a change. No, there was no use to try and fight it, endangering the boy and his fiancée to be while at it as well, because he was dying anyway. Maybe this meant a quicker death, less painful if he got enough opium, sweeter even. And his soul was already damned.

Back to the matter of opium, Arthur _knew_ that he needed some, right now. He may have been exhausted and dizzy, but the tell-tale ache in his chest was nevertheless present. The blond looked in the niche beside the sofa, but they seemed to have run out of supplies for now. Had Bonnefoy gone to get more from Yao Wang? Damn, he was at the Frenchman’s mercy!

“There isn’t any left, so don’t bother.” His frenzied search had woken Elizaveta and now she was giving him a bored and unsympathetic look while tossing her own pipe aside. “I can’t believe he left me like this, with you here, and who knows for how long he’ll be wandering out there this time,” she ranted. “What am I, the keeper of his _pet_?”

Arthur cringed – so the Frenchman had gone outside! He couldn’t have gone after Alfred and Lilly, could he? No, no, he shouldn’t think of it! No, the monster must have gone to find himself another girl to suck dry and give to his ‘dogs’ to rip apart (because there was clearly more than one ‘dog’ than that insane doctor).

“I-I need more… s-smoke…” he stuttered horribly. “Please, I-I’m in pain…” the constable muttered faintly, burying his face in his hands, desperate at the futility of it all. She wasn’t going to help him, that much was obvious.

“Wang has opium, but only _cher_ Francis can get it from him,” the brunette stated. “So what are you going to do, little bunny? You have no money… and I don’t think your pathetic begging is going to help either when it comes to Yao.”

Arthur fleetingly thought that some sort of reply would have been in order, but he could think of nothing to say and waste his breath on the monster’s whore. He used whatever energy he had to slip the boots on and tie them, before standing up on shaky legs. Trembling hands buttoned up and smoothed the white shirt as best he could, as well as the black slacks.  As insane and hopeless as it must have been, he had to get some opium, somehow, _anyhow_. Would the monster mind? He didn’t care. After all, he wasn’t running away, trying to escape or anything, and Bonnefoy had not seemed adverse to him using the relief.

Thus, the blond started off with unsure steps, the ache and soreness continuously advising him against it at every move, walking away from the alcove. It was disturbing to stumble in the dark like that seeing how his head was still spinning slightly and the occasional moans, cries or laughter coming from the other clients of Wang’s establishment startled him constantly. On the last occasion he’d been down here by his own will – namely to see what the Frenchman had discovered on the murders (how ironic!) – he’d caught a glimpse of Yao Wang’s private quarters. They were fairly luxurious, just as the chambers and booths reserved to his wealthiest clients.

There was no door, but a glass beads curtain and Arthur leaned against the moldy wall next to the entrance, peeking inside awkwardly and at a complete loss as to what to do next. There was no option really, he had no money or anything of value to pay for the drug, he might as well not have bothered at all. But then his hopeless musings were interrupted as the curtain was pushed aside and the man whom he presumed to be Yao Wang himself walked out.

It was hard to say if the Chinese man was young or rather ageless, but at any rate he was almost what would have been called exquisite, way too beautiful for a man. His luscious raven-black hair done in waist-long braid was draped artfully over his shoulder, over the yellow silk of his robes. His hands had thin, gracious fingers and long nails painted in an elaborate pattern of yellow and red.  

“So, you are the constable kept in there by Frenchman bastard, right _aru_?” Yao asked with an unreadable expression, reaching out to grip the blond’s jaw and have a better look at his face. “I know why you came, yes? I can see in your eyes.”

Arthur could only nod weakly in reply, lacking the mere will to push the man’s hand away.

The Chinese man gave him a quick once-over and tilted his head to the side, thoughtful. “But you have no money, _aru,_ yes?” Yao smiled unexpectedly. “See, constable, I have most trusted servant, a Scot named Allistor. But before I took him in, he was very rowdy man, he caused many trouble and was arrested a few times. So he… took a special ‘liking’ with London police, very special...” At this point Wang’s long-nailed fingers traveled up the blond’s cheek, in a weird caress. “If you let me watch as he fucks you, I give you opium, yes _aru_?”   

Despite the horror coiled in his stomach, the detective almost gave a snort. It must have been the monster’s plan to keep him here and torment him indefinitely, among other things by getting him addicted to the drug and then deprive him of it. But if he agreed to Yao’s proposal and the Scot killed him (because he had no doubt it would happen), it would be all over. And if that didn’t happen… at least it might make the Frenchman mad enough to kill him himself. But until then, perhaps he would get a bit of opium, just a bit. Slowly, almost inconspicuously, he nodded.

Yao gave a small, pleased chuckle in turn and walked back to his chambers.

* * *

 

Arthur glanced up slowly at the red-haired giant as the man emerged from the shadows, his lithe frame shaking slightly. A wicked gleam was in his light-colored eyes and, even if his face was rather handsome, his grin looked feral and deadly. He sauntered toward him slowly, without rush, with light predatory steps and the policeman wondered if once he reached him the man’s fist would fly up and slam into his jaw brutally, knocking him off his feet with one blow.

But Allistor just stopped up close, cocked his head to the side thoughtful and reached out, gripping the blond’s jaw between his thumb and index finger and tilting it up, as if to get a better look at the other’s face.

“Aye… Ah have seen mah share o’ constables until now, I ‘ave ta say, but none quite as pretty as ye… Ta bad ye’re not wearin’ yer uniform, ah would ‘ave enjoyed this even more!”

His grin widening, the Scot suddenly reached down and grabbed the back of the younger man’s thighs with both hands, lifting him up with ease and supporting his thin frame against his torso as he carried him inside Yao’s living quarters. Arthur couldn’t help but shudder, equally horrified at what was to come, his own decision and the lack of options which had ultimately led to it. All he could do was to close his eyes and endure it. 

The blond found himself lowered to sit onto a bare mattress and saw Yao casually lounging on a sofa nearby, running his long-nailed fingers through the rich, ebony locks of a young girl in his lap. They were both watching with expectant curiosity and he had to swallow the last crumbs of his pride at the thought of actually having to…

The Chinese man nodded simply and Allistor knelt down to take off the policeman’s boots. Then strong, impatient fingers opened his shirt in one motion, not bothering with the buttons, and pulled down his trousers, exposing his whole body to the view. Arthur cringed, mostly at the cold air attacking his skin and pulled his knees up a bit, barely fighting the urge to curl up. The Scot’s large, warm hand rested on his shoulder, pushing him to lie back onto the mattress, before sliding down his body in a slow, appreciative motion.     

“Mei, give me one o’ yer knives, will ye?” he asked and the brunette in Yao’s lap stirred, her silk clothes swishing lightly as she produced a gleaming, thin blade from the folds of her robe and handed it over.

“Sharp enough ta cut through the finest silk, mah wee bun, a truly good blade, ah reckon,” the redhead chuckled, running the silvery, ice cold tip through the soft, thin trail of blonde hairs starting under Arthur’s navel, all the way down to his private parts. “Now, let me see wha’ we’re payin’ for an’ if it’s good maybe ah won’t cut ye ta much…”   

The detective wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and know of it no more, but the shine of the knife, restlessly teasing his heated skin, drew his gaze with hypnotic power. Allistor’s grin only grew wider as he parted the blond’s knees and pulled his hips into his lap and Arthur, who at this point covered his eyes with his arm, heard him fumbling with something.

“Now, just ta make this go smoothly…” A slick, cold finger was pushed inside, causing him to wince in discomfort, then another. “Wha’ do ye say, constable?” the redhead asked, leaning forward to whisper in his ear.

“T-thank you, sir…”

A chuckle followed. “Ah always liked how ye English are always so polite!”

* * *

 

Green eyes blinked slowly, tiredly as the policeman woke up at last. The bright flame of a lamp burning onto a small nightstand near the bed bothered him and made him squint, a soft groan escaping his dry, chapped lips. Arthur realised he was now fully naked under the rough blanket, his upper body propped up against the Scot’s equally bare chest while the man was sitting, leaning against the headboard and currently reading a newspaper.

The hand resting onto the blond’s lower back under the covers moved, fingers rubbing gently but doing nothing to soothe the awful soreness he was experiencing. On top of that, he could almost still feel the coldness of that accursed blade all over his skin as it had not ceased to torment him throughout the act. As expected, the Scot had dutifully poured his feelings of ‘affection’ towards the London police force in it, making it particularly rough, but thankfully had not inflicted any significant damage. Not that it mattered anymore… but he could still feel pain.

A moan made its way past his lips as Arthur did his best to ignore it, focusing on the newspaper instead. It was new, the front page bearing a large title which announced the public execution of Dr. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. He reached up to grab the page and read more, but Allistor caught his hand before he could.

“Ye’re awake, mah lil angel?”

The blade appeared again and this time was pressed straight into the policeman’s palm, while his hand was forcefully closed around it. Arthur winced, eyes widening, but the pain never came, nor any bloody gash showed. The redhead laughed, putting the newspaper aside.

“It’s blunt, ye see? Ye didn’t think lil Mei would dance with sharp blades an’ hurt ‘erself, did ye?” Then the knife was tossed carelessly onto the floor as the man shifted and turned, pinning the blond to the mattress under him with both hands.

“No, no, wait! Mr. Wang said that if I-“

“Right away, mah lil angel. An’ ah must say, ah really liked ye. Took it like a man, ye didn’t cry, didn’t beg fer mercy… not tha’ ah would ‘ave shown ye any, but still. Ta bad tha’ ye passed out right before the end o’it an’ didn’t get any fun yerself.  But ah’m goin’ ta fix it now.”

“Please, sir, I need-…”

“Ah know, ah know. Mei, bring me a warm towel, aye? Just humor me now fer a bit, constable.”

Allistor leaned in, capturing his mouth and kissing him shamelessly, sloppily, while a soft, warm cloth was wrapped around his member and the Scot began to rub him. “Now moan fer me like the wee slut ye are, mah bun. Ah wonder wha’ the Chief Inspector would say ta see ye like this… hehehe!”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, but pleasure took him against his will, dark and sinful and utterly inescapable. It served little to bite back his moans as he panted and his back arched in response to the ministrations, hips bucking slightly to meet the man’s hand. And then Allistor took his mouth again, roughly biting into his lower lip and the blond somehow managed to free one hand and fist it in the fiery, unruly hair, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss even as tears began to stream down his cheeks. Even if it was a mockery, even if it hurt, this brute’s touch was preferable to that of the Frenchman’s any time.  

“Oi,” the Scot laughed, pulling away eventually. “Ah thought ye wanted ta smoke.”

He moved to sit up again, hauling the constable into a sitting position against his shoulder, even as he was panting hard and still recovering from his peak. Deft fingers held up a pipe and prepared it meticulously, then the Scot lit it up and took a testing drag himself before taking it to Arthur’s lips.

“There ye go, mah lil angel.”

The constable took a long drag, a violent cough choking him at first and making him hastily wipe a few drops of blood off his lips before the calming effect settled in, easing the ache in his chest. The Scot stood from the bed, thankfully allowing him to have the blanket all to himself to wrap in. When he returned, he was holding something in his hand – a steaming bowl of soup.

“Ye need ta eat mah wee bun, ye look like ye hadn’t have anythin’ in days,” Allistor said, taking the pipe from Arthur’s hand and hauling him up again before carefully taking the bowl to his lips. It was just chicken soup, but it tasted divinely and the blond only now realised he’d gone without food for who knew how long. He muttered a few words of appreciation and gratitude between sips, while the redhead petted his hair as if he would a child’s.

“Say, constable, before this ye hadn’t slept with any other man aside from the baronet, had ye?” The other nodded. “Aye, ah could tell ye were a clean lad…”

“Why do you love this man, _aru_? He is very bad man.”

Arthur blinked, only then noticing that Yao had come and sat down on the edge of the bed, studying him curiously.

“I don’t love him, I bloody hate him with all my heart. He’s an abomination and I want him to die,” he whispered weakly, before sipping the last of his soup.

Wang sighed. “We want him to die also. He is very bad for business, just comes and takes, opium, even drinks sometimes, for him and his whore, always takes, never pays, never! We try to kill him, many times, but he doesn’t die. No matter what we do, poison, stab, he doesn’t die for good, Allistor can tell you all we tried.”

“But… why is he here? Why does he stay here?”

“Because here is a tomb, _aru_. And he is dead man.”

**_To be continued_ **

**_A/N – Well, I can only hope you’re not too disturbed and let me know how you think this will end. Opinions? You know I love hearing from you guys and… yeah. There’s one more chapter left, including the epilogue, so, who knows, maybe I’ll decide to make the outcome somewhat less grim in the end…_ **


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

A/N – Hello my dear readers! Again, I want to express to you all my gratitude for the amazing feedback and support throughout this story I’ve written at the command of my inner demons ;) I’ve greatly enjoyed making this sinister plot ‘come alive’ and in truth I was quite surprised that it was so successful ;) And now, without further ado, here’s the last chapter, followed by a short epilogue at the end to clear things.    

**_Chapter 6 soundtrack (as you may have noticed, I ended up using a lot of the Kuroshitsuji soundtrack for this story – I just find it inspirational and fitting) :_ **

Kuroshitsuji OST 1 ∞ Coffin man

Kuroshitsuji OST – The dark crow smiles (instrumental)

Kuroshitsuji OST 2 ∞ Doll House

* * *

 

The Frenchman’s steps were light but steady against the stony ground of the catacomb den as he walked towards his alcove, sapphire blue eyes narrowed and lips thinly pressed in irritation. Indeed, for Francis Bonnefoy had lived too long to feel pure, un-obliterated rage anymore, that too had faded with the passage of time, just like all of his emotions. And of course, he had expected to be betrayed in the worst fashion – both by his unruly pet he had yet to break for good and by his unfortunate whore of an offspring as soon as the opportunity presented itself. But it was natural, the blond reckoned, since he was always associating with those of the wrong sort. Perhaps it was because he was subconsciously seeking to be challenged, for the mere opportunity to demonstrate his supremacy again and again? 

Elizaveta was slumped against the wall, in an apparent daze beyond which he was able to perceive discontent. The baronet focused his attention on her, because he was angry and because he didn’t want to look at the young Englishman lying asleep on the bed, a pipe long gone cold resting between his pale fingers. He needed not even try too hard to pick up the _other’s_ scent on his prey’s skin, even if he’d washed and had been given a change of clothes. The fact that Yao’s arrangement was working so well for him was the only reason for which that presumptuous Scot’s body wasn’t lying in the gutter right now, in more than one piece. 

“I thought I told you to keep an eye on my _possessions_ ,” the noble spoke bluntly, towering over his vampire child with sheer disdain written all over his features. “And I’m surprised at your failure, because this isn’t quite a new concept. _Non,_ this has always been the deal. Why do you think I keep you here, anyway? Do you genuinely believe it is because I still enjoy your presence, or because the sight of you gives me any kind of thrill?”

Elizaveta looked up slowly, her gaze meeting the two cold blue gems which were her master’s eyes and willed herself to stand, in one fluid motion, and look him straight in the eye.

“Well, you’ve certainly never held such ‘possessions’ before, have you? Yes, you think me unworthy because I cannot match your cruelty! Our kind has never kept _slaves_! Look at him – not like I care but he whored himself for some opium and a bowl of soup, because you’re starving him, you’re starving us both!”

Francis said nothing, a small smile beginning to form on his thin lips, but then, without warning, his hand shot up and hit the brunette across the face with such brutality that she fell to the ground, a large bloody gash appearing on her pale cheek where the sapphire ring had sliced through the flesh.

The Hungarian barely dared to sit up, shaking as her trembling fingers crept towards the ugly wound which had already begun to close, and blinking back tears. “Gilbert will hear of this! He will have your head for this, you beast!” she whispered under her breath.

But he only laughed with even more disdain, flinging himself over the sofa carelessly. “If you don’t want me to rip out your throat, you will never mention Gilbert again in my presence, _chere_ Eliza,” the fortuneteller said calmly, reaching for his pipe.   

* * *

 

Arthur had barely woken up once or twice after being returned to the Frenchman’s alcove and he’d already felt the regret of having lost the company of other living people. Yao had of course politely explained that he couldn’t risk Bonnefoy’s wrath even more by keeping him around, despite Allistor’s obvious enjoyment of him. And thus he’d been brought back here, clean, fully clothed and tucked under the blankets, and the Chinese had even sent fresh opium supplies for which the vampire would have asked anyway.

There was no denying that his health was deteriorating more and more – now the fever wouldn’t cease and kept him unconscious for most of the time. But even under that haze, the Englishman was horrified at what was to come. He had moments when he thought of death as a relief, but in truth he was afraid, he wouldn’t even dare imagine what his _master_ was going to do to him upon his return. He was so scared that he wanted to cry, only he was too tired even for that and his tears seemed to have dried up. But in the end nothing happened.

“Are you sure no one comes looking for him?” Yao was asking, while sitting upright and picking nervously at his sleeve.

Francis smirked, showing sharp white fangs. “No one… worth mentioning,” he replied, reaching out to run his elegant fingers through the young constable’s unruly strands, now damp with sweat. Arthur moaned softly in his sleep as the cool hand traveled down to his forehead, to the side of his cheek and then along his neck, soothing the heated skin. But then the green-eyed blond’s eyes opened brusquely, wide with unspeakable horror, as his gaze travelled from the Frenchman hovering above him to the den owner.

“I-I don’t want to die! Please… I don’t want to die!” he whimpered pitifully, hands helplessly clutching at the blanket as he panted.

“Shhhh… it’s alright. Everybody dies, _mon petit lapin_.”

“Yes, everybody except for you, crazy dead man,” Wang muttered. “How annoying!”

The fortuneteller scowled, waving his hand in dismissal as he reached down and collected his prey in his arms, whispering soothing words to the sobbing blond. Yao stood from the sofa, throwing one last unsettled glance at the twin wounds marking the pale skin of Arthur’s neck before he walked away.

* * *

 

Alfred had spent several sleepless nights since the dreadful moment in which he’d discovered the letter hurriedly scribbled by his friend, along with his unmade but empty bed with bloodied sheets. He’d shown and told everything to the Chief Inspector, only to discover, much to his horror, that the ambitious man had been quick to write Arthur off upon the news of his illness and given the fact that the detective had pretty much served his purpose in finding the long sought-after murderer. He would not be bothered with tales of hellish creatures and was sure that Arthur had left the letter in a moment of liquor-induced madness before disappearing God knew where. It was of course regrettable, but he would not have any of his men waste their time looking for a dying drunkard.

In truth, the American didn’t really know what to believe. In his childhood in New Orleans he’d heard all sorts of tales of otherworldly occurrences, ghosts, evil spirits and the like, but the true faith to which he was devout asked that he be distrustful of such superstitions. Yet Arthur’s words made some sense in the light of Dr. Braginski’s baffling experiment, bringing a shadow of doubt upon his beliefs, and then there had been the equally disturbing and unexpected visit from Father Beilschmidt.

As expected of him, the priest had not wasted time with any complicated subtleties, instead he had simply described what he’d seen the night the Englishman had visited the neighborhood church and had his hand burned by holy water as if by acid. The sight had shaken Beilschmidt to the core and he wasn’t easily shaken, as he’d never witnessed anything of the kind before. But in any case, the priest was unwilling to make judgments as to why Arthur had gone down the path of darkness or what might have befallen the poor man. He only had a word of warning for the young man – Arthur had become _unholy_ and wherever Arthur had gone, Alfred had best not follow.

Only he couldn’t. Alfred could not bring himself to abandon the man who had shown him so much kindness, the man who’d felt like his family after the tragic loss of his mother. He could not give up on his friend, at the very least he would make sure Arthur didn’t meet his end in some God-forsaken place. If the Frenchman had taken him – as the letter made him suspect – he would have to confront the fortuneteller, even if that meant to go down into the Little Underworld all alone.  

* * *

 

Wiping cold sweat off his brow and breathing deeply to calm the erratic pants from the hurried descent, the blue-eyed blond decided that the God-awful underground den owned by Yao Wang looked far more dreadful than he remembered. It had the stale, suffocating darkness of a tomb, which no amount of flickering fires, sounds and people moving about could disperse and the young constable was unable to comprehend how some could find any solace in here.

He was paid no attention by Wang’s ever watchful men – mostly because he was alone – but this only meant he wouldn’t get any help either from anyone. Could it be true, though? Was the French fortuneteller behind all those horrors? Or maybe, _maybe_ there was some truth in the Chief Inspector’s assumptions and Arthur had simply chosen to come down here of his own volition and ease his suffering with opium. That was something he could understand, something he could ultimately deal with, even if he didn’t approve.

But whatever hopes the American had entertained in that respect soared and were crushed almost in the same moment upon the one discovery he made as he reached the Frenchman’s alcove. The man himself was nowhere to be seen, instead Arthur was lying on the soft cushions of the sofa, eyes closed and head tilted slightly in his sleep, his chest rising and falling almost inconspicuously. He wore clean clothes and his hair was neatly combed – better than Alfred had ever seen him wear it – and a light green silk ribbon in the very shade of the detective’s eyes was tied around his neck and fastened in a delicate bow. Did this mean…?

“Arthur?!” he cried choking, kneeling beside the sofa and reaching for the hand resting over the other’s chest. “Arthur, please wake up!”

But there was no reply, the Englishman didn’t as much as stir and when Alfred reached out feebly and pulled down the ribbon, he was met with the sight of two very familiar wounds on his friend’s throat. He froze in dread, realization dawning upon him at last and confusing him entirely as to what to do next. Arthur was thankfully still breathing, which meant it wasn’t too late for him to try to-

“And you say I never do anything to feed you, _ma chere Eliza, mais voila_!” Francis Bonnefoy said, emerging from the shadows as if he’d been lying there in wait all along. The brunette woman who had been there the last time followed closely, an odd spark of interest in her bright green eyes as she gave the American an appreciative once-over.

“Sir, I don’t know what you did to my friend, but please, he’s very sick!” Alfred heard himself pleading as he still clutched the other constable’s limp hand. All he felt was a cruel defeat, somehow he couldn’t even muster the strength to get up and face this abominable creature.

The baronet snorted lightly, crossing his arms casually as he leaned against a pillar. “The thing is, constable, that your friend should have never come down here. Did I not tell him? Someone with long fingers would grab him eventually…” he chuckled playfully. “Indeed, he shouldn’t have come here, and neither should you have, for that matter.”    

“Please, at least let him die in his own bed…”

“Oh, but that is such a cruel thing to say, _mon ami_ … Perhaps I have decided not to let him die at all,” the Frenchman said thoughtfully. “But I cannot say the same about you, after all… it’s not for me to make up my mind about that.”

The younger constable’s eyes widened in shock at that, and he finally stood up slowly, letting go of Arthur’s hand. He made a move to step forward, to fling himself at the mocking beast in sheer despair, but he wasn’t quick enough. Elizaveta tackled him from behind, fangs sinking into the nape of his neck before he even knew what was happening.

The brunette drank greedily, not heeding the weakening struggles and moans, until her prey’s body went limp in her arms. Only then she stopped, licking at the wounds before pressing a gentle kiss to the now pale lips of the boy’s. “I think I may have already made my decision, _cher Francis_ ,” she announced defiantly. 

The blue-eyed blond only snorted. “Just don’t think this will be easy.”

* * *

 

The pale, elegant hand with long-nailed fingers laboriously painted brushed aside the beads curtain and Yao peered out from his chambers, his gaze wandering over the expanse of the Little Underworld, as much as it was visible from his doorstep. His thin eyebrows furrowed over thinking of the better rooms he had - large, lavishly decorated and furnished with soft, pillow-laden sofas and oriental carpets, which he’d built in the larger crypts and which had been quite the investment. Fortunately, they weren’t that many, most available places were cramped and consisted of alcoves and cots covered in filthy rags.

Yet he was making money out of each and every place and if he were to leave Little Underworld, simply gather his things and leave everything behind to move elsewhere, all in all he would lose a small fortune. But that particular thought plagued the Chinese nevertheless, ever since he’d met the young constable held captive and reduced to a pitiful wreck by the clairvoyant monster who was draining him of stuff. Of course, he did not care about the constable per say, but the newly discovered extent of the Frenchman’s malice and cruelty unsettled him greatly and Yao’s gut feelings told him that this wasn’t going to end well.

The owner fiddled with the end of his long braid, glancing over his shoulder to the young brunette girl busying around his chambers, setting the pillows and covers straight. Mei was pregnant with their first child, _his_ first child. Could he allow his child to be born in the proximity and possibly at the mercy of such a creature? No, they had to leave.   

* * *

 

It took the most of two weeks before his most trusted servant Allistor and another man discreetly carried all the valuable possessions out of Little Underworld and to a safe house in the city, near the harbor. After carrying out the last bit of his plan, Yao Wang had every intention to board a ship and leave London for good, never to return. Of course, he’d made good money here, but figured that he could very well make money somewhere else too, maybe Marseille or even Paris. He was a very enterprising and adaptable man by nature and opium never failed to sell. There would always be people who needed some dark hole to bury themselves in while their mind was off into the distant lands of drug-induced dreams.

The den’s usual patrons were too dazed to notice if anything was going on, but still Yao feared that the Frenchman might catch wind of what he was about to do. That would have been a very dangerous complication, one which might have very well resulted in having him, Mei and all of his servants killed in a gruesome way.

And yet, he was going to do the right thing, the Chinese told himself every time doubt reared its head. The addicted were already doomed – opium was a slow but merciless poison and their mind was half-gone already. He would not be hurting any innocents, rather, if he were to succeed in his final attempt, many innocent lives might have actually been spared if the demon was destroyed at last.

* * *

 

Yao stood on top of the stairs leading down into the Little Underworld, his hands folded and hidden in the large silk sleeves. Dark eyes swept over the high brick ceiling, against which thick scented smoke floated carelessly, over the flickering lights coming from the crypts and heavy eyelids fell shut for a moment as he sighed deeply. The Frenchman was there - he had this certainty - and once they would seal the gates and outer door shut the monster would have no way out. No one would have any way out.

The bright torch illuminated the Scot’s pale face and brought out even more the fiery shade of his hair and the brunet saw that his lips were pressed tightly, a tension almost palpable in his sturdy frame.

“I know what you think of, Allistor,” Wang said softly. “But by now he must be long dead, _aru_. Not to blame yourself either, you know the Frenchman fed on him anyway. Is what that beast does. I hope now Death takes him, before he can kill more people.”

The redhead nodded slowly and stooped, lowering the torch until the flames reached the thin trail of gunpowder which went all the way up the stairs. There was a tiny spark as it ignited, the small fire rapidly rushing along the trail and down the stairs.

Yao and his servant had already locked the iron gates and were making their way along the tunnel leading to the small mausoleum when the first explosions resounded, along with the panicked screams and shouts of the wretched souls trapped inside. But the den owner did not once look back to see his underground city scorched by flames.

“Let everything burn,” the Chinese whispered to himself, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve against the thick, foul-smelling smoke. “Let _him_ burn.” 

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

The sky was slowly lighting up in the east, shy shades of pink creeping over the dark blue. A mild wind was blowing and Francis inhaled deeply, taking in the salty, refreshing scent of the sea. Soon he would have to make his way back to his coffin, but for now he allowed himself some more time outside, in the open air. After all, the time he would have to endure confined in his sleeping ‘quarters’ until the ship finally reached the New World was a rather dismal perspective.

The slender, long-nailed fingers danced caressingly over the pale forehead of the young man sleeping in his arms, brushing away a few blond strands ruffled by the breeze. His lips were soon to follow, pressing against the soft skin which was now as cold as his, yet death having stolen away nothing of his prey’s enticement. And Francis looked forward with delicious anticipation to the moment those gorgeous green eyes would shine with a new, previously unknown lust for life and thirst for the very essence of this world.

“And maybe…” he whispered softly, his mouth brushing against Arthur’s in an almost-kiss. “You will finally come to obey me, _mon petit lapin_ , fully, genuinely and without restraint of the wretched morals of your human life.” The vampire paused, glancing back to the rest of their ‘luggage’, gaze trailing thoughtfully over the two other crates piled below his own coffin, and which he’d locked carefully just in case. “And I hope the same for my _chere_ Eliza and her new… attachment. Who knows, perhaps my coven will grow strong enough and one day…”

Indeed, Francis Bonnefoy mused, if things went in the desired fashion, one day they could return and finally challenge Gilbert the Red - the king of the Old World - and his wretched minions.

**THE END.**


End file.
